‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. 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. ‘Damnation!’ Confused, he released her, and in an instant she had darted away and was running down the garden. Time enough to do so when she has her affairs settled—if she can settle them. ‘Can you not open it?’ she cried. And now, come and sit by me, my dear, and let's have a little quiet chat together.
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