His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. ’ ‘No. 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. “You promised faithfully to be there,” he said slowly. In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict.
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