"Bring him out, Quilt. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. The world had not passed by but had gone around it in a tremendous half-circle. He cocked an eyebrow. But a time will come (and that before long,) when our sex will assert its superiority; and, when we have got the upper hand, let 'em try to subdue us if they can. “He will find it difficult no doubt to alter his style of living,” she said. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about.
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