The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. It felt wonderful and golden to bask in the sunlight of their approval, even if their approval was fickle and dangerous. She has no proof—yet. As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. "Begone! or I fire!" he cried. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads.
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