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. ’ ‘Poor little devil,’ said Gerald, genuinely sorry for her. She winked at him as he shut the door. It was obvious that he had waited for her. Good-bye, for the pressent—ha! ha!" And, laughing loudly at his own facetiousness, he quitted the Lodge. “Oh my God! You sounded like my Grandma just now! How did you do that?” He asked, shocked.
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