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The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. ‘He lacked moral fibre, did Nicholas. He took a handful of the gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered, and threw the small pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam. Katy oozed money from every pore of her being. A rare moment of amusement lightened Melusine’s mood for a moment. ‘Who’s this, then? Not soldiers again. “Why don’t they wait?” he added. "He wouldn't hurt a rabbit.
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