" "Who cares if we do?" retorted Sheppard, with a look of defiance. ‘Bon. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do. A few bricks, dislodged probably by his last descent, came clattering down the chimney, and as it was perfectly dark, gave him the notion that some one was endeavouring to force an entrance into the room. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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