“Is everything okay?” His mother touched his 251 shoulder gently, standing up. It’s Providence. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. 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 did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her supposed husband, the soi-disant Valade. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. I must provide for my safety.
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