He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. He did it, he said, “to distract his mind. “You remember our first meeting?” “Yes,” he answered hoarsely. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. Playing became a way of escape.
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