Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. ” He left her where she was, crying in the doorway. 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. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. Paris copies London.
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