I will shed no more blood. And then I'll pay off old scores. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. She came back with two women, one in each arm, which she threw down like sticks as she alit onto the stone causeway. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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