It was nearly one o’clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. For although I must confess it reads very much like an application or a testimonial or some such thing as that, I can assure you I am writing this in fear and trembling with a sinking heart. 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. All our fraternity are afraid of him; but I laugh at his threats. We dine at seven-thirty.
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