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To be exact, it was just sixteen hours and twenty minutes. He seemed to be hesitating between two courses of action. 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. It looked very patient, she thought, and a little self-satisfied. We two. At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition. A brief description will suffice for them.
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