Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket. The clever hostess having let fall that several distinguished guests from France would be present, the world had flocked to her doors to catch, like the gossip-hungry vultures they were, a glimpse of them. 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. But she did not bother her head very much about her relations with these sympathizers.
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