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. She tipped his mouth towards her own and kissed him. He lowered himself on to her. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home. Here, then, but for the time and place, might be another Sidney Carton.
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