What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. ‘Gerald, what have you been about? Dorothée tells me that you were flirting outrageously with Madame Valade on Monday night.
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