‘Because she, naturally enough, does not consider that it is in any way my affair. ” “That’s the comfort of you. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She tipped his mouth towards her own and kissed him. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. ” “It was a mistake,” she faltered. Peg after peg had gone down his blistered throat, but never had a smile touched his lips, never had his gaze roved inquisitively.
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