’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a prayer) let down the bars to his reserve. She should have slapped him but she was in shock at her own thoughts of lust that arose.
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