For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. I knew it. Shari entered the room in a damp towel, fresh from the shower. Now I know that you don’t live as close to the Beck house as you once pretended. “I have signed a statement that I shot myself; bad trade and drink, both true—both true. Yes, I can readily believe it. Mere hangers on. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. Forgive me.
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