“I hope,” Annabel answered lazily, “that you have succeeded. ‘I do not know how you think you may help me,’ she said slowly. Empty, silly, coarse brutes. She pushed him gently on the chest. His head bent down, intent on kissing her underneath the showerhead. Good-bye. It will be his interest to do so. 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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