The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. She met him by the dugout after the game. “If I sit here,” he said, standing up before her abruptly, “I shall have to shout. Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the roof, stood Mr. He breathed a little sigh of satisfaction. ” She said. One comes at last to the step from dreams to reality. She waited for him to leave the room, and turned back to Gerald.
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