The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. She surveyed accommodation that seemed at first merely austere, and became more and more manifestly inadequate as the moments fled by. So absorbed was she by her passionate supplications that she was insensible to anything passing around her, until she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and heard a well-known voice breathe in her ear—"Mother!" She started at the sound as if an apparition had called her, screamed, and fell into her son's outstretched arms. She had gained respect all about town with news of her fine marriage, and her reputation as a beauty was expanding. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. But I mustn't think of these things, or I shall grow mad.
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