Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. I swore to hang you two years ago, but I deferred my purpose. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. She raided their settlements in shifts, staggering her kills from tribe to tribe, undiscriminating of their petty politics. They don’t count, and I don’t care. It's all your fault, you shaking coward! and, but that I feel sure you'll swing for your carelessness, I'd throw you into the well, too. .
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