"I'd rather have given a thousand pounds than this had happened. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. That is my real milieu, and one that I am convinced you would not only adorn but delight in. A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. Sheppard, in a voice of agony.
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