’ Gerald laughed. She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. The porter instantly made his appearance, and Sheppard ordered him to take care of the horses. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. It wasn’t. 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. Do not imagine that I cannot do so, as well as I can this Gérard.
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