" "You are an angel, I say," continued the poor maniac; "and my Jack would have been like you, if he had lived. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. Just an idea of mine. ‘Do please continue,’ Gerald begged, deceptively docile. I'm likely to get up any time in the night to work. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed.
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