Sister Angelina shook her head as if to say that such ignorance was beyond her. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. 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. “Those things are not for me just at present. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry.
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