“Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. You’d better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the postoffice and draw it out a fiver at a time. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its occupants. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. “But how can you?” asked Constance.
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