Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Homosexuals weren’t looked too kindly upon in their exclusive suburban neighborhood, not even dashing handsome ones. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. “What a hypocrite you are. What a treat to see all the old tabbies taken at fault for once!’ ‘You are a dreadful child,’ scolded Mrs Sindlesham, with which Melusine could not but agree, despite the dimple rioting in her great-aunt’s cheek. Sheppard uttered a piercing scream. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. Part of her even believed that her mother would have wanted her to stop feeling guilty and to be happy. I’ll be waiting for you outside. Then suddenly her spirit rose in revolt.
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