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. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. She pulled him towards the bed. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. ‘This is a private house,’ Hilary said severely, ‘and you are trespassing.
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