“David Courtlaw!” she repeated. It had been a big event for teens across town. ’ The one ray of light lifted Melusine’s gloom a little and she smiled. She examined Michelle’s pale face. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. “Nothing can cheer me,” he said, “except champagne. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears.
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