Aware of the footman hovering, and the hackney coachman’s curious eyes looking down from his box, Gerald leaned a little towards her and spoke in a lowered tone. "It is droll," he said. “Aren’t we all just odds and ends of humanity —the left-overs, you know. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. Between her and the fair, far prospect of freedom and self-development manoeuvred Mr. 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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