Michelle’s eyes darted around, she refused to look straight at Lucy. I thought then perhaps you didn’t care, that you were like so many of them. He subjected me there to great annoyance by claiming me as his wife. Nice position. The sunshine was brilliant, the air mild. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. I don’t play anything. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it.
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