He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a faint shudder stir her shoulders. Into this hole in the wall and out of it the native stream flowed from sunrise to sunset, when the stream mysteriously ceased. 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. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven.
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