She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. "It's not very likely that a babby of nine months old will save my life, if I'm to be his friend, as you seem to say, Mrs. Melusine was silent, revolving this outcome in her mind as she stared at Roding, who was frowning at her in a puzzled way. 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.
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