‘Signed by a priest at Le Havre, so it must be true. ” Her urge to drink deeply of his blood was growing insane, ignited by what he had already donated. The piece, in three movements, was short enough anyway. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. He would have to go on; he would be forced to enact all the obligations he had imposed upon himself. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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