A row of magnificent, and even then venerable, elms threw their broad arms over this pleasant spot. “Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. His lovely black eyes softened until they became like languid as the night sky. "Enough's as good as a feast. 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. The latch came with a weak click. “Dear husband,” she murmured. The flicker of an eyelash might betray his presence.
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