The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. "I witnessed the bet. "By my shalvation, boy," he added, fiercely, "if you don't take your hande off my peard, I'll sthrangle you. " Many wrinkles appeared at the corners of Ah Cum's slant eyes—as if the sun hurt—but the rest of his face remained as passive as a graven Buddha's. ‘Nothing would do for her but to come here,’ grumbled Hilary, wiping his heated brow with a pocket handkerchief dragged from his immaculate white uniform breeches. " And springing backwards, he darted suddenly through the door. In twenty minutes we meet in the hall, remember. "Shpeak up, vill you?" cried Abraham, rapping his knuckles against the hatch.
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