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. ‘If you are not going to visit Charvill today, I’ll escort you back to the convent in Golden Square. I do not wish to blow off a head, you understand. What more could any reasonable man— especially a watchman—desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine. I always told you some accident would happen. \" He panted, wiping sweat off of his brow with a towel.
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