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. " "Let me have a glass of brandy," said he, addressing the host. " "What!" exclaimed Mrs. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. She backed away from him. Even that he sleeps, I must give to him my thanks, for he has been excessively brave for me.
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