She ran 60 past it with melancholic dread towards the slope that led to the ocean. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. She found him reclined, watching television in a small guest room hidden in a back wing of the massive house. But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. ’ With pretty imperiousness, she gestured to the bed beside her.
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