Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. “But that’s not all. “How are you feeling?” She asked with grave concern in her voice. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. "They imagine their work is done. “But I still think of my old foster brothers and sisters.
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