In mid-bite, she heard a car door slam that was recognizable. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. The commissionaire stood there, tall and imperturbable. Anna, you shall not go. Recovering himself quickly his instinct of self-defence was quicker than his recollection of Anna’s presence. He looked across at Annabel, and he groaned. Jonathan had to feel his way. 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.
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