” He looked at her pleadingly. That night she found a ship bound to sail for the heathen nation called America. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. His smile faded. “Please go and see that—nothing happens,” she pleaded. Further on, there were impressions of bloody footsteps along the floor. 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. Stanley, with an imperious gesture, “to come in here.
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