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It was just a chance that we in particular hit against each other—nothing predestined about it. ” “Of course,” he said, reaching out his hand tentatively for his hat, “I could go away even now. “He wants to settle something on you, I believe. 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 threw one arm across his own chest and clapped himself on the shoulder. "Poor Mrs.

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