Wood's displeasure; and he was the more readily induced to do this, as the conversation began to turn upon his own affairs. And for many years, that was the way it was. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. “But your hair,” he gasped. 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 knew him in spite of his dress. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. ” The hand lingered too long.
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