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. He stared at her stupidly, forgetting to guard against the tactics he had come to expect from her. She studied her form in the full length mirror, assessed 69 her body as one would that of a prize calf, trying to see it through his eyes, through the eyes of desire. “It is hard to express one’s self, but I do want to be honest with you. ” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. ‘Have I not said so?’ ‘No, as it happens.
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