The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. “What do you mean, Annabel? You only knew Mr. In Paddington. Satisfied in this respect, he flung himself into a chair, for his iron frame seldom required the indulgence of a bed, and sought an hour's repose before he began the villanies of another day.
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