Of course, at home there would have been questions. “You are coming my way,” Courtlaw answered. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. You square the G. 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. He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently.
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