‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. Drink this!” He poured out a glass of wine with a firm hand, and held it to her lips. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. What was the old tabby at? Unaccountably embarrassed, he cleared his throat. Opposite, his pupil stood with bowed head and clasped hands. The afternoon had passed now into twilight.
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