1. The Wastrel did not relish this. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support.
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