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. His relation of the murder of Sir Rowland petrified even his fierce auditors. The island was snake-free. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. Jack was so harrassed that he felt half inclined to stand at bay. I'm neither an infidel nor an agnostic, so I'll content myself by saying that the hand of God is in this somewhere. They had heard nothing, seen nothing.
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