He remembered also, all at once, the very first words he had heard her speak: “I was not born to this. Plays Beethoven, Rubenstein and all those chaps. Which, let me assure you, villain, will not be so far away. She answered him with another kiss, long and deep. 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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