Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient. 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. " "I had to. .
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