“What’s that for?” He said. The strong potation he had taken, combined with fatigue and anxiety he had previously undergone, made him oversleep himself, and when he awoke it was just beginning to grow light. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. Playing became a way of escape. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. "Come out!" roared Quilt, looking into the aperture. I——” She threw herself into an easy chair. He drew her away from this thought.
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