The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. . She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. “What?” He replied.
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