Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. ” Annabel rose to her feet. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. “Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. He was in love with her! She tried to grasp all the welter of values in the situation simultaneously, and draw some conclusion from their disorder. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. “She’s all right. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. The signal of distress was evidently understood.
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