CHAPTER XIII. ” “I think I am. 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. For Ruth grew lovelier as the days went on. He had been for months without music of the character he loved—and he dared not play any of it! McClintock, after the music began, left the piano and sat in a corner just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp. To be exact, it was just sixteen hours and twenty minutes. .
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