He looked just as Julian had the night she had first met him outside the Joliet Laundromat. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate.
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