Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. For a long time he remained standing before the fire, staring at the situation. And it's a maxim of universal application: or, at least, of universal practice. 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. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd.
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