"Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford. “Then I will do what I can,” Anna promised. 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. After the usual laconic greetings, he drew him on one side. ‘You wish to die?’ ‘Not in the least. ’ ‘Then you’re mad,’ Roding said flatly, and suddenly grinned.
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