Spurling, you're a witness to the bet. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself. Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. “I shall leave the flat to you and go to a hotel. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. They arrived at the party shortly after 10:00pm.
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