Muffling up his face, Jack turned away; but he had not proceeded many steps when he heard a man reading aloud an account of his escapes from a newspaper. Her naked body was an abomination of caked filth and sagging tubes for breasts. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. Cathy opened her beauty shop, you know. She did not question or analyze the craving; she took the plunge joyously. “Unless you have an appointment, which you haven’t,” he said, “you’ll only waste your time here. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. I'll dig it up.
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