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'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. Panting with effort, she held her point menacingly at Gosse’s chest. Good riddance to bad rubbish. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night.
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