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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. He was all alone, too. ” Ramage reflected. “I will MAKE you love me! Until he has faded—faded into a memory. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. . For so far she had kept it uncashed.
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