She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. And I think I must pursue my acquaintance with the fulsome Madame Valade. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. "I've done nothing to offend you," persisted Jack.
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