There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further. But out of a belated regard for her father she wrote the surname of some one else. "Mr. Winifred, you are deceived in me. 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. Your uncle—our uncle is with him. Except for the dull eyes and the extreme pallor of his face, there was nothing else to indicate that he was deep in liquor.
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