If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. He donned his winter coat. He laughed reassuringly. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. He is all kindness, and will overlook them for your poor father's sake —for mine. Hawk and Buzzard.
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