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. “He does not come here,” she exclaimed, quickly. It was enough that Spurlock had been taken aboard The Tigress. She longed to allow him to kiss her again, to touch her again. Loneliness. It probably still wouldn’t help. If you'd read your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death at Jonathan's door,—and with reason too, as I can testify.
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