" "Comfort yourself, then, Aliva. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. I worship you. 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.
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