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. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. And a time will come, Veronica, mark my words, a time will come when you will bless me for my firmness to-night.
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