"Here are some letters, which will let you see what a snake you've cherished in your bosom, you uxorious old dotard," said Blueskin, tossing a packet of papers to Wood, as he followed his leader. I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day a celebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of his fall. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. She stood among them, watching them and feeling curiously alien to them.
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