“Please play something for us,” Carol asked, her eyes aglow. ‘The major thinks she’s worth it,’ put in Prudence quietly. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. 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. ‘How she pouted, and tried to make out that she had been imposed upon.
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