The freezing water lapped around her ankles as she ran along its edge, marveling at the thousands of tiny white spiral shells the tide had brought in. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Then, when the tension was getting unendurable, and she was on the verge of speaking to some casual passer-by and demanding help, her follower vanished.
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