‘When you’re my age, you’ll be just as hardheaded. Her lips parted, but no words came. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. His reputation was slightly tainted by his marriage to her mother, an exotic blue-eyed raven-haired beauty, a Gypsy doll with a clandestine heritage. She felt like a dried-up old woman. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse.
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