On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. “Who will you stop with?” “I shall go on my own. Oh! my dear, dear son, be warned in time. 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. I was reduced to 170 a fool, for there were many pretty women from all walks of life in that teeming city. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword.
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