The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. He was a tall man and fair, with bluish eyes that were rather protuberant, and long white hands of which he made a display. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. She felt that Ann Veronica had duped her in that dream, and now that she had come up to London she might as well speak her mind. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. Anna sprang to her feet and made for the dressing-room door. A shaft of searing heat plunged downward. She found herself alone in the train asking herself what she must do next, and trying not to think of herself as cut off from home or any refuge whatever from the world she had resolved to face. "It has been … rather a hard day, Hoddy," Ruth answered. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep.
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