What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. Presently she was going through a swaying, noisy crowd, whose faces grinned and stared pitilessly in the light of the electric standards. She dissected well, and in a year she found herself chafing at the limitations of the lady B. 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.
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