"Leave me to my fate," rejoined Jack. “There are two things to be done,” he said softly to himself. But to go courting a slave-girl, at the risk of physical hurt! A shudder of distaste wrinkled her shoulders. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. " "Add that to what she is now suffering? It's too late. ‘Small wonder in a way that he found hisself consolation elsewhere.
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