The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see. Plainly. “Nothing,” said Ann Veronica, and stared over her shoulder out of the window. 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. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea.
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