He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. ‘But a spy I am not. He was nearly wincing. 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. ’ ‘Is she now? And what would you be wanting of her, may I ask?’ ‘Because she knows something that may make this fool understand that I am the mistress of—’ She broke off.
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