” Her mind drifted into a speculation about her sister. He had no use for Ann Veronica; he had never had a use for her since she had been too old to sit upon his knee. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. You don't want people to snub you later. But Jack did not heed them. They're only just gone, mercy on us! what a clatter," she added, as the knocking was repeated more violently than before. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. 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. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated.
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