’ ‘What about the lad?’ said the captain suddenly. “I find it very hard to write this letter. 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 stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. I don’t defend it. The rascal will be at work before the morning. . Then Capes’ footsteps approached. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. He never appears to so little advantage as when speaking of him. ‘Comment? You have then met this Suzanne?’ The woman turned a deep red.
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