She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. While this was taking place, another and more serious interruption occurred. His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. 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. “We will see that he never annoys you. “You, anyhow, don’t deserve it,” he said. He saw that his words were falling upon dull ears.
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