He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. I am tired, and I want to be alone. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly. 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.
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