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. ‘What is it?’ asked Roding. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. Jonathan kept his keen eye fixed upon him, as he addressed himself for a moment to the Hollander. Of course, at home there would have been questions.
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