It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn. Surely it was a dream. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. Confidence in himself would strengthen him. It was the beginning and the end of the transaction. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. ‘Jacques?’ she called. “Want one?” Michelle deadpanned. ” He was slightly tipsy.
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