But at last this ordeal was over, and Ramage opened the door. 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. And for many years, that was the way it was. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. In the distance a bell clanged, and chattering broke out in the doorway as several nuns came crowding in. The odd creak was not to be avoided in an old house such as this. .
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