The child was now within reach; and, in another moment, he would have executed his deadly purpose, if an arm from behind had not felled him to the ground. There is something inconglomerate about us. 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. The houses overhung in a frightful manner, and looked as if the next gust would precipitate them into the river.
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