But when Ruth's hand fell gently upon his bony head, he knew that no one in this house would ever offer him a kick. I shall always be kind to him; I sha'n't bait him. Michelle looked her up and down, liking the results of her efforts. Every care had been taken of it, as well as of himself, by the humane inmates of the house in which he had sought shelter. The van started with a jerk and rumbled on its way. Abruptly she desisted, recoiled, and turned and fled up-stairs. “Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about. 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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