Anna was unimpressed. Melusine—the real Melusine—would never have made such a stupid mistake. 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. Spurlock relaxed, suddenly, and sank deeply into his pillows. There he was, standing with a group of men who she presumed to be the other richest men in the world. “Nothing has happened to Mr. Nothing has been touched since.
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