At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. Prudence Remenham. Still, the respite was sufficient for Spurlock to look about for some weapon. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. She had warned him. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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