’ ‘Do you tell me you think you can outwit Gerald? I wish I may see it. Something in her voice and manner conveyed an effect of unwonted gravity to him. 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. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside.
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