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. There were shadows under his eyes. She rose from her chair, and began walking up and down the room restlessly. She had never experienced anything so disagreeable in her life as the sense of being held helplessly off her feet. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up.
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