“And what on earth,” he said, “do you think the world is made of? Why do you think I have been doing things for you? The abstract pleasure of goodness? Are you one of the members of that great white sisterhood that takes and does not give? The good accepting woman! Do you really suppose a girl is entitled to live at free quarters on any man she meets without giving any return?” “I thought,” said Ann Veronica, “you were my friend. Sheppard. The thousand voices which a few moments before had been so clamorous were now hushed. I am aware that you ran away from there, but—’ ‘Certainly I ran away,’ she said, meeting his gaze with defiance in her own. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. He insisted once again on opening the car door for her. "Without proper medical care, he would have been dead by morning. But it sounds too real to be imagined.
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