But shurely I'd know that vice," he added, turning his lantern towards the janizary. “Idiot!” She raged inwardly while she walked along with that air of self-contained serenity that is proper to a young lady of nearly two-and-twenty under the eye of the world. Let me keep you from that man’s clutches. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Free, there is nothing left to her but the canal. 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. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf.
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