“But, how,” he said, sitting up astonished beyond measure, “not go on?” “I have been thinking while you have been talking. That Capes should love her seemed beyond the compass of her imagination. He’s the handle of life for you. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road.
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