‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes. You might even tire of me by then, you know. 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. “But I have no troubles. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. You see I am rather obstinate.
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