It got on my nerves—the women I saw. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. "You forgot your lunch," she said. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. I'm not hungry. ’ Melusine gave it up.
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