"They shall not harm you, my love!" she exclaimed. 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. “Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries,” he said in a dry official tone. ’ A laugh escaped her. She would have just to keep the fifteen pounds until she could make it twenty. CHAPTER XIX.
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