Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls. The only persons in the Lodge were Mrs. All four people moved a little nervously into the drawing-room, maintaining a sort of fluttered amiability of sound and movement. He told me that he was a millionaire. 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. “YOU had to come in.
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