They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. "With the help of his comrade, Jack Sheppard, the young rascal made a bold push to get out of the round-house, where my janizaries had lodged him, and would have succeeded too, if, by good luck,—for the devil never deserts so useful an agent as I am, Sir Rowland,—I hadn't arrived in time to prevent him. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. 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. “But I am at singing-pitch. ‘Typical.
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