‘I do not believe you. She was not very clear about the position and duties of a chorus-girl, but it certainly had the air of being a last desperate resort. She could even think of what had happened. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. And that’s why I’m at your service. .
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