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‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. It appeared from what he said that he had been captured when asleep,—that his liquor had been drugged,—otherwise, he would never have allowed himself to be taken alive. 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.

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