As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. Let—it—fall. At any rate he made it very clear that night that there was an ineradicable discord in life, a jarring something that must shatter all her dreams of a way of living for women that would enable them to be free and spacious and friendly with men, and that was the passionate predisposition of men to believe that the love of women can be earned and won and controlled and compelled. “Absolutely platonically,” she said. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. We have both tried hard to develop it—you and I —and we have failed. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. Jonathan had not deceived him.
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