And then this girl had to sweep into and out of his life! He recalled McClintock's comment about Spurlock being the kind that fell soft. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. —There, Mr. Anna sat with the face of a Sphinx— waiting. “Yes,” he said, “I want to get away. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. “I think,” she said, “that I would rather not have anything to say about that man. I thank God for the very skin that is peeling from your nose, for all things great and small that make us what we are. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony.
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