” He stroked her hand gently. I didn't think. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. Gazing into each other's eyes with new-found rapture, neither observed the sudden appearance in the doorway of an elderly woman in travel-stained linen. Her mouth was an effective tourniquet. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love. ” Sir John coughed. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out.
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