" The Wastrel laughed. ’ ‘A pretty tale. She dropped on her knees by his side, and gently unbuttoned his waistcoat. ‘And if not her, for she is dead, then me. He never finished his sentence. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. He had deliberately saved it for last. ‘Poor things.
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