Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. Ann Veronica considered her answer. She cursed herself for a fool. He moaned. "More than you'll pay for it, friend," snuffled the Jew. He stood by her side, and he suffered her hands to rest in his. Ruth could tell the doctor; she could bare many of her innermost thoughts to that kindly man; but there was an inexplicable reserve before this young man whom she still endued with the melancholy charm of Sydney Carton. ‘Like you?’ ‘But I am not French. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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