The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The following morning found him in the doctor's waiting room, a black cigar turning unlighted in his teeth. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded. He stood completely still as she moved her tongue up and down its shaft. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon.
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