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. Did he see him, this Monsieur Charvill?’ ‘I don’t rightly know, miss,’ confessed Kimble. Remain at the door, Nab," he added, loitering for a moment behind the others, "and let no one in, or out. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. " "Holloa! my hearty!" cried Ben, starting to his feet. “I was really interested in his stuff.
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