“Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. She kept opening her eyes and looking at it. She could tell that he was furious in that instant. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. “I hope,” Annabel answered lazily, “that you have succeeded. He would talk to Spurlock, but from the bench; as a judge, not as a chagrined lover.
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