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 fancied that when they had had time to reflect, they would regret it still more. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. She was my first love. “That is your sister’s name. Gerald noted the lady’s eyes brighten as she caught sight of him making his way through the throng towards her. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. .
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