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. ” “Except,” said Constance, surveying her work with her head on one side, “to keep the matches from the litter. The twists in his brain had suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he knew now exactly what he had done. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. She almost sprang to her feet.
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