You women, with your tricks of evasion, you’re a sex of swindlers. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. ‘So yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’ ‘I should say so. Why ain’t you gorn? Seems to me I had ought to arrest you. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess. 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.
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