We've got to make him take up the harp of life and go twanging it again. Brendon and I are great chums,” he went on nervously. Part 2 The next morning was as dark and foggy as if it was mid-November instead of early March. 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. She had fallen asleep. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived.
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