His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. So I come round the other way and—Lordy, miss, I’m that sorry I made a mull of it. That is, if Spurlock had been throwing money about, which was more than likely. ‘What happened, ma’am?’ enquired Gerald gently. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. “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. Do look at this tragedy in mauve, who has just come in. She shivered, more due to his presence than the changing weather.
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