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. "My father!" she whispered. ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. ‘If you imagine you’re going to use one ungentlemanly act to manipulate me, you very much mistake the matter. He never appears to so little advantage as when speaking of him.
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