He stood transfixed. " "Faix, then we'll do it in style," cried the fellow. ” He took up his hat. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness.
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