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. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. "It's of no use," observed Thames quietly, but with a look that chilled the little damsel's heart;—"my resolution is taken. She was making it up. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris.
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