“Beautiful these autumn flowers are,” said Ann Veronica, in a wide, uncomfortable pause. Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath. Years ago, when you were a girl and in the bloom of your beauty, I loved you. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. ” “By God!” said Manning, making the most of the word, “I suppose it’s fate.
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