" The chair was then opened. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. “How could he call except in your absence, as you are never at home in the afternoon. On the stranger's appearance, she was seated near the window busily occupied with her needle. He knew that at this moment Ruth lay upon her bed in torment, for she was by nature tender; and the reaction of her scathing words, no matter how justifiable, would be putting scars on her soul. 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—well, I lost my temper. But I must summon my janizaries. I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day a celebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of his fall.
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