She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. ’ Roding’s voice changed. She moaned, having failed in her mission to find her mother and her God. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. On a high chair behind a raised counter the stipendiary’s substitute regarded her malevolently over his glasses. You can purchase the information from me whenever you're so disposed. God help me.
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