Diane Vorsack clicked her tongue in a “tsk”. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. The boy would never know just how lucky he was. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. ‘And so?’ she asked. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. I do not say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of this Wastrel.
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