Mrs Sindlesham occupied a large padded armchair to one side of a corner fireplace, which gave out a heat more than adequate for September to one of the major’s robust constitution. Ennison listened, and he forgot where he was. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. 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. “I suppose I shall have to write an answer. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. ” “You came—here!” he repeated, vaguely. ‘Still—here? Wasting your—time. I do not desire to extenuate my guilt—far less to defend it; but I would show you, and such as you —who, happily, are exempted from trials like mine—how much misery has to do with crime. With a gesture which was without any kind of emotional expression, the manager indicated the silent crumpled figure on the floor and gave the room number.
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