” “Oh Jesus. ” He put his hands in his pockets, his mouth puckered to a whistle, and he went to the door of the outer preparation-room and stood there, looking, save for the faintest intensification of his natural ruddiness, the embodiment of blond serenity. “Now here hath been dawning another blue day; I’m just a poor woman, please take it away. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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