She confronted him with his own double-standard. "My child!" he groaned faintly. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. It's gin—a liquor you used to like. ‘That is my mother. He pulled rein at the sight of her, saluted, and regarded her with his rather too protuberant eyes. Youth finds it pleasant sometimes to be melancholy. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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