Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted. "Get from under it, Jack!" vociferated Thames. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death.
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