"I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. She made a quick movement, and the hand fell away. “Listen to me. III. 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 was going through with that, anyhow. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love. Hill lost a little of his truculency. But I'm sure it's important.
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