In the second, she was wretchedly poor, and assailed by temptations of which you can form no idea. 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. I've an idea it'll be that long before the chap gets up. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead.
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