"It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. Norris. "I've done all I can to the portrait here. 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. She listened, her suspicions confirmed. ‘It is not for myself, you understand,’ pursued the man, in an unctuous tone that sickened the general, ‘but for this poor one. I—I hurt myself. But they been good to me, they have, sir. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor.
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