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But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. Blank it was, except for a gate near the bridgehead. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. A nurse came hurrying up. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. Presently she became aware of footsteps hurrying after her, and glanced back to find Miss Klegg, a little out of breath, in pursuit. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents.
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