But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. The spikes almost touched the upper part of the hatch: scarcely space enough for the passage of a hand being left between their points and the beam. 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. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself.
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