" "Shall we do so?" whispered Winifred to her father. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. ” She paused for a moment. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold.
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