He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. “Of course. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. In that sense, my strategy worked. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. I am ready to wait for you, to wait your pleasure, to give all my life to winning it. 9. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. She was on the rim of civilization, entering, as Spurlock was on the rim, preparing to make his exit.
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