‘You’re as mad as she is, Gerald. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. 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. "Jack!" Her son averted his gaze. She was frightfully hungry. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned.
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