“You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. I slaved over it, contacted half a dozen genealogy groups and came up with zilch. 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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