She had no idea what she should do. ‘I do not understand you. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. That same adventurousness that had already buoyed her through crises that would have overwhelmed any normally feminine girl with shame and horror now became uppermost again. 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. They stopped talking, except to each other. “If you really are going to wait, make yourself as comfortable as you can.
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