The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. " As he spoke, the door of the round-house was opened, and a stout man, with a lantern in his hand, presented himself at the threshold. He had informed her that to leave him would be a choice to live a life of meager subsistence. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. She visualized him as in a policeman’s uniform and quite impassive. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. "I suppose it didn't drop through the ceiling, did it? Are you quite sure it's flesh and blood?" asked he, playfully pinching its arm till it cried out with pain.
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