After the usual laconic greetings, he drew him on one side. "She has fallen into the villain's hands. I am bothered. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Mauled about!” She fell to rubbing her insulted lips savagely with the back of her hand. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. To O'Higgins—for all his sordid business he was not insensible to beauty—to O'Higgins she appeared to have entered the room with the light.
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