We’ll go. I go back about once a year. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. 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. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested. That capitaine has arranged it all.
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