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. I pray you, Gérard, do not fail me. She took up the poker and stirred the fire vigorously. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. Bête, she told herself fiercely. John was acutely focused upon her now, just as she had wanted him to be. ‘I was not born to this. I know well that you are making a game with me.
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