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. ‘En effet, it is for this that I was enquiring of this man if he has pen and paper. She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger.
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