He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. “I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said. “Not at all.
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