Tell me what you think the island is like. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. “You were there, were you?” He laughed a little impatiently. At least for one moment, it was. 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. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother.
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