He appeared suddenly from the infinite in the neighborhood of the Burlington Arcade, crossing the pavement toward her and with his eyes upon her. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. You’d think he wanted to meet the wretch again. Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. But here the resemblance stopped. “Love should be enough, John, but it never is. "My portrait!" echoed Jack.
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