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. “Tell him to drive—anywhere,” she exclaimed. ‘Ah, the tragedy. ! He’ll come a cropper one of these days, if you ask me. " "Anything, my dear," replied Wood, "What is it?" "Bury us together in one grave in Willesden churchyard. "Gad! it's a devilish fine face when lit up.
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