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. The doctor reached over and laid his hand upon Spurlock's heart. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered. “Okay. “You appear,” she said, without any sign of anger in her tone, and with unruffled composure, “to be a very impertinent person.
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