Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months. "It's Jonathan Wild come back with a troop of constables at his heels, to search the house," rejoined Mrs. ” She disengaged herself from him and went out of the room with a grave, preoccupied expression. 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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