It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. 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 I wish her hand had been as deadly as yours. Wow. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk.
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