His eyebrows arched, knotting in the middle. He was a wonderful little creature with a perfect tiny face, mottled pink cheeks, and eyes brighter than May. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. Besides, it did not fit her well, which was why the loose wimple had slipped. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out.
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