“Let us go to that little place at the back of the Palace. There was a pleasant numbness in the bottle; that's why I went to it. 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’s my wife,” the man muttered. "And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose.
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