‘Laisse-moi. ” “And the second?” “Make love to a single woman. They blinded me. 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 looked melancholy enough, it is true. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. It just made me mad to the boiling point.
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