The miserable woman staggered, uttered a deep groan, and fell senseless on the straw. She did this to please him. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. 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. I—well, I lost my temper. Wood scarcely knew where he was. I believe—I believe that I must risk it.
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