As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. For hours after she had not been sensible to life, only to exquisite echoes. ’ ‘His daughter, ma’am?’ Gerald asked. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback.
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