The air became hot and swollen with June humidity. If only monsieur le baron had said nothing, or perhaps instead accepted the couple as the Valades and agreed to help them. 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. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More.
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