‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. It was time to get up. In the bad light he looked at once military and sentimental and studious, like one of Ouida’s guardsmen revised by Mr. 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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