It was exactly as Sebastian had foreseen. 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. He smiled. Wood carved the ducks; Mr. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. “But it still misses the nucleolus. “Surely!” he remarked, with an expression of worried appeal.
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