But there was something else; and in his befogged mental state the comparison eluded him. Lucy Albert?” “Yes, sir?” She replied, opening the door as Cathy rose from the couch and Larry stirred from his bed. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. Actually, he had come all this distance simply to fulfil a certain clause in his contract with Fate, to be in Canton on this particular day.
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