‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. Lucy sized up the girl. 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 wanted to talk with the patient, test him variously; and he wanted to be alone with him while he put these tests.
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