As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. It was something that would create a mutual claim, a relationship. Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. “I will not have this slavery,” she said.
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