For an instant, Melusine watched him go. Lucy could see the anger in her silhouette, the punishments and the grounding being formulated for the now dead daughter. She undid his zipper and pulled his shorts down his hips. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. 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.
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