The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. Down under the incalculable selfishness of the penitent child there was the man's uneasy recollection of Judas. ‘I told her you couldn’t have been flirting, but she wouldn’t believe me. She was good to me for the two years I stayed with her, she had a nice apartment in Galveston. He glanced at Miss Klegg again, and spoke quickly and furtively, with eager eyes on Ann Veronica’s face. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. F. " "I don't know," said the doctor, dubiously. "But I can guess what it's for.
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