’ Chapter Twelve In the elegantly appointed blue saloon, Melusine sat disconsolate, gazing out of the window at the dull sky. She found herself trying on the baubles he brought home, placing the silver rings upon her slim fingers, knowing that he would take up her hand and kiss it. “I want to make you happy, Lucy. " That was true, thought Spurlock. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper. It made me wake up, and there I lay thinking of you, spending your nights up here all alone, and no one to look after you. 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. Spurling in alarm.
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