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” Her reverie broke, and she found herself still in front of the looking glass, a barrette hanging loosely from her hair. ‘Merci, Joan,’ cried Melusine, moving to her and seizing her hand which she clasped between both her own for a moment, as she turned to the others. 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. Women who Dids, and all that kind of thing.
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