Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. Oh, God!” Rhea sniffed the air through two gaping nostrils that had eroded through her onion skin flesh. ‘Obsessed, that’s what you are. Challenge accepted. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. He suddenly became eloquent and plausible. His statement was treated with derision. He pressed the bloody wrist into her mouth, and she though she could not feel it or 72 control it, she knew she was being made to swallow. She wondered even at this late day how she had been able to hold her maddening curiosity in check. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual.
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