The thousand voices which a few moments before had been so clamorous were now hushed. 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. ’ Roding allowed that he had a point, and followed him as he began to mount the stairs. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. As Spurlock called her name, she paused and turned.
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