He is delightful, is he not?’ ‘That will do, Lucilla. Jack seemed glad enough to rest, his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. Books; an inexplicable hunger to be satisfied. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. Fortunately, I've secured the proof of my birth. 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. “I wish he had,” she said.
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