He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him. His perseverance was amply rewarded. At the bottom of the trunk I found two of my mother's dresses. Her lips came together with an expression between contentment and the faintest shadow of a smile, her manner was one of quiet reserve, and behind this mask she was wildly discontented and eager for freedom and life. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. “Great.
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