There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes. “Why would she do that? Why does she care? That’s a waste of her time. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. "But to drag this innocent child into the muck! With her head full of book nonsense—love stories and fairy stories! Have you any idea of the tragedy she is bound to stumble upon some day? I don't care about you. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. I was orphaned a long time ago. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. And I am coming to believe the best as well as the most beautiful friends a man can have are girl friends.
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