” “Can’t we arrange something? Can’t we make a sort of treaty?” “He wouldn’t keep it. I seed he was one,—and a sharp un, too,—at a glance. The lad had just barely jangled it, when hurrying footsteps could be heard inside. 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. Marvel, in a tone intended to be consolatory.
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