"May come!—it will come!—it shall come!" cried the carpenter, shaking his hand menacingly at him. She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magic blue horizon. Every now and then her general presence became radiantly dazzling in his eyes; she would appear in the street coming toward him, a surprise, so fine and smiling and welcoming was she, so expanded and illuminated and living, in contrast with his mere expectation. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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