“I can’t. ” “You are not a coward,” she repeated, “or you would not be my friend. All the rest—Movements! I can live now on fourpence a day. ” He nodded twice, with his eyes on the fire, as though that was a formal statement. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone.
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