Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. She peered into the darkness. It was she who had come out from the flat only a few minutes before. Why don’t you wait and see if you do truly love me, then I can believe you? Then I know I am worth waiting for. Lucy marveled at the billiards table and the sauna. At least the sun would not be as bright, which was a welcome reprieve from the mercilessly bright early summer days which had invigorated every man, woman, and child in the suburbs but were wearing Lucy down into acute fatigue, along with her hunger. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. " The walls appeared to rock; bulging shadows reached out; the candle flames became mocking eyes; and the blood drummed thunderously in Spurlock's ears. You won’t settle and I’m going mad. I don’t want to tear at you with hot, rough hands.
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