" There was a pause. Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. ’ ‘Ah. There was already a score or more of people there, some standing up and talking together, others seated in chairs ranged along the wall. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. “No reason. Diable. You may have something to conceal, you may not. 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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