After all, old P. "One-and-twenty, ah!" repeated Gay. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. “It spreads like wildfire. "Well, my pretty dears," he added, "—to see your husband, eh? You must make the most of your time. Do you know what? You're some sea goddess and you're only fooling us. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. She watched for five minutes until he completely disappeared over Pine Crest, past the yellow fire hydrant and the dented stop sign.
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