Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. Taking the wind was her business in life. It was a sovereign easily earned. “Please come by. There was a gulf of eight years between her and the youngest of her brace of sisters—an impassable gulf inhabited chaotically by two noisy brothers. She just sat and told me that was her arrangement. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. After a long fifteen seconds, she pulled her head back into the seat, looking at his face from the close angle, his nose huge and out of perspective, his eyes like round blue pearls. They’re in grad school and they both live in New York.
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