The nuns, they were very good with a whip. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. ‘Keep your distance! You dare to tell me I cannot refuse?’ He glared at the girl. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. This chap's recovery all depends upon the care he receives.
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