The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. God, we suck. In fact, the whole face had undergone a transformation. "Come down stairs directly, and let your mother look at your wrist. You make me angry, and I lie. He had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face.
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