“I don’t suppose you’ll be able to do it much,” said Ann Veronica. 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. Her eye wandered quickly over that riotous and disorderly assemblage, until it settled upon one group more riotous and disorderly than the rest, of which her son formed the principal figure. But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further.
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