Thought she was a nun at first. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. She laughed till the tears stood in her eyes. ’ He sighed, spread his hands quite in her own manner, and fluttered his lashes. These were seated in an imperfect semicircle about a very copper-adorned fireplace, surmounted by a carved wood inscription: “DO IT NOW. 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.
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