She wondered occasionally why his mind needed so much distraction. ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. 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. “The man who was found dead in your sister’s room was named Hill?” “It is the man,” she answered.
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