She understood. The small Diedermayer clan was a captive audience. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. 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. “Who is there to care and—John. It might as well be Melusine herself. En tout cas, Gérard will very likely kill you before the hangman has the chance. Maggot, laughing.
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