Mr. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. 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. “Thank goodness!” said that retreating aspect, “that’s said and over. Somehow. In a little while he and she were talking quite easily and agreeably. We came on here at once. She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support.
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