It is like a second honeymoon. The path he had selected conducted him to his mother's humble dwelling. "A thousand dollars in British pounds!… A thousand dollars for four short stories!" The tan on Spurlock's face lightened. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be. ” She interrupted as Ann Veronica was about to speak again, with a bright contagious hopefulness. Then came the shock of the knowledge that soon he would be going upon his way, that there would be no one to depend upon her; and all the old loneliness came smothering down upon her again. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. He recognized the face instantly. 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 believe you,” she murmured.
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