He would come swiftly to her aid, she knew it. It was open. Always I have said I will take care of myself, and I have done so. ’ He grimaced. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out.
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