‘You will not, pig,’ cried Melusine. What sort of a standard of life yours may be I do not know, yet in your heart you know very well that every word you have spoken to me has been a veiled insult, every time you have come into my presence has been an outrage. 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's had a hard knock somewhere; and until he is strong enough to walk, we must keep his interest away from that thought. Melusine crossed to open it, and immediately the knocking intensified in volume.
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