The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. “A young man comes into life asking how best he may place himself,” Ramage had said; “a woman comes into life thinking instinctively how best she may give herself. She was always so fertile that she could even impregnate herself using the semen from a corpse, which she did, as you found out. The man had favoured him with a brief nod, but the girl had gone so far as to offer a tiny smile, and a look under her lashes with which not even Gerald, for all his scant interest in female society, could fail to be familiar. Her anger parlayed with her confusion, as she realized that the new marriage was about as optional as the first one and her hunger was growing inside her like a weed. She read for half an hour, then closed the book because Spurlock appeared to have fallen asleep. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face.
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