Quilt's manner, indeed, was that of a man endeavouring to muster up sufficient resolution for the commission of some desperate crime. 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. “There is no doubt whatever about that. He tore his gaze away, aware of the quickening of his heartbeat. She meditated profoundly through several enormous cold hours on all that had happened and all that she had done since the swirl of the suffrage movement had submerged her personal affairs. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman.
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