She began to think persistently of Capes, and it seemed to her now that for some weeks at least she must have been thinking persistently of him unawares. Life waits for us. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. She was frowning, but it was evident that her initial fright had left her.
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