"I shall kill her if I stay longer," muttered her son, completely terrified. Capes kept obstinately stiff, and spoke between his teeth. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come.
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