She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. 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. ” “I don’t understand. How dare you use my name and sing my songs?” Anna looked at her sister in blank amazement. “What are you doing?” He cried. As sure as you're sitting there, Mr.
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