" "Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. Sections and pages had been pasted together, and all through both Testaments a word had been blotted out. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. Then, naturally, I went on talking.
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