I tried. “Read this, John. 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. Something like a snarl crossed his face, and ignoring the pistol, he moved forward, seizing her shoulders. They were childless and servantless, and they had reduced simple living to the finest of fine arts. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. ” John tried to direct the topic away from him. The ladies can't sleep in their beds for him; and as to the men, they daren't go to bed at all. From the first I could see that neither believed my story.
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