The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. Gianfrancesco became agitated. Tell Lucy about the time you were nine years old and blew up the house, John. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. ’ The sergeant’s air became positively avuncular.
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