I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day a celebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of his fall. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. He’s dead. "Here, wife—hostess—fetch me that bottle from the second shelf in the corner cupboard. It had seemed to her that life might be very good indeed with his kindliness and sacrifice about her.
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