The pistol was lowered slightly. Oh God! pardon me. "Teach you to keep your distance!" retorted Mrs. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. After a certain amount of manœuvring, however, he was induced to crawl around, and in a few minutes came to stop again before a tall brightly-painted house, which seemed like an oasis of colour and assertive prosperity in a long dingy row. "I yield to fate.
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