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I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. Anna was not “Alcide” of the “Ambassador’s,” whose subtly demure smile and piquant glances had called him to her side from the moment of their first meeting. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. “In a sense—yes. She herself had cut the slender tie that had bound them. . Even our coarseness. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. 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. ‘Pray do not trouble yourself, Saling.
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