So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone.
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