She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. 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. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday.
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