For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. Always. The hard work will be his, until we yank this young fellow back from the brink. “Get you a cold one?” “No thanks. I have never told you so, or Sydney, but I can sing—rather well. Taber returning. He winced from the wasp-like sting. They were exquisite.
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