Then for the first time she was conscious of an unaccountable and terrifying sensation. Lucy collapsed to the floor in a sob. 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. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed huskily.
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