He watched her constantly, trapped her in corners and slept with his arms locking her like a human cage. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. “Oh dear, I’m not dressed. His eyes were closed. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife. And he liked her. "You want me, then?" she said. He has nothing to fall back upon, no substitute; but a woman always has the mother love.
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