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. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously. But from the first her rather old-fashioned conception of life had jarred with the suburban atmosphere, the High School spirit and the memories of the light and little Mrs. ‘But for how long?’ Lady Bicknacre asked apprehensively. One has to be so careful.
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