” He shook his head. When she occupied, it, it was neatness itself; the little porch was overrun with creepers—the garden trim and exquisitely kept. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. Leave me behind: I'm not afraid. You said that it would bring trouble. 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. This farewell had been particularly distasteful to him.
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