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Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. "But never mind who, or what I am. " "You'd better take care of your mother's son instead," rejoined Blueskin. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly. A white man, wandering about the streets of Canton at night, was a challenge to such a catastrophe. He threw her on the bed. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Usually his charges bored him with their interrogative chatter, for he knew that his information more often than not went into one ear and out of the other. There was a man, a boy, and a woman. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. He roused curiosities. To settle things, you know. ” She said.
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