As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. 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. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. You certainly have not shown much desire for my society, have you?” “You have been wrapped up in your politics,” she murmured.
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