"To me?" gasped Winifred. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The children made us slaves, and the men took advantage of it. She was slender, and sometimes she seemed tall, and walked and carried herself lightly and joyfully as one who commonly and habitually feels well, and sometimes she stooped a little and was preoccupied. Stanley, standing up with a sudden geniality and rubbing his hands together.
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