Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. Now, he had achieved them, and felt assured of success. Remember what the conjuror said. She had not even endorsed it. 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 was something fatalistic about the letter H. Manning in fancy costume, as though he was a doll.
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