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He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. Don't be afraid. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. He’s dead. I want to do without that for a time. " "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy.
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