I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore. I wouldn't be in his skin for a trifle!" "But he may peach," said Smith casting an oblique glance at Jackson. ’ ‘But you don’t look anything like her,’ burst out Mrs Ibstock. Capes—the ‘Capes crave,’ they would call it in America. "He's a base, deceitful, tyrannical, hoary-headed libertine—that's what he is. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind.
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