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"What's the matter?" he cried. 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. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred. One day I can be a Gothic chick, and the next day I’ll be Hitler Youth. “John, we should be getting out of here.
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This video was uploaded to theblogfullofgames.com on 20-09-2024 19:33:15
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