The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. I've taught him all he can do; and there isn't his fellow, and never will be again. Satisfied, however, that she did not notice him, Jonathan glided away as noiselessly as he came, and ascended another short flight of stairs leading to the garret. They do not come for me, to find me and bring me home.
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