In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. She stared. 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 never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, after a long interval, “if they are absurd. Having ascertained that Thames was at his heels, he hurried with his ghastly burthen down Seacoal Lane.
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