" "Are they good?" "He can write; but he hasn't found anything real to write about. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. " The Wastrel laughed. She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. No further responsibility whatever. The child has sprung into a youth; the youth has become a man; the man has already begun to feel the advances of age.
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