Instead, they lived a Bohemian existence, moving from patron to patron, city to city. ” “It’s dreadful for you to be here,” he said, indicating the yellow presence of the first fog of the year without, “but your aunt told me something of what had happened. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. “Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. Jack did not advance to meet her. She was surprised at his modesty. He's as savage and suspicious as the devil himself. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo.
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