It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. 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. It would surely be only common politeness to drop her a hint—a fellow countrywoman too. On the way, he hired a chair with a couple of stout porters, and ordered them to follow him.
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