Stanley, having pretended to linger to smoke, fled suddenly up-stairs to petrography, and when Veronica tapped he answered through the locked door, “Go away, Vee! I’m busy,” and made a lapidary’s wheel buzz loudly. She cocked her head. Once she reached the bamboo curtain, clutched at it and tore it down as his arms went around her waist. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. “Have you heard things?” The tears stood in her eyes. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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