There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. “You must tell me the truth, please. Then suddenly he seized a new preparation bottle that stood upon his table and contained the better part of a week’s work—a displayed dissection of a snail, beautifully done—and hurled it across the room, to smash resoundingly upon the cemented floor under the bookcase; then, without either haste or pause, he swept his arm along a shelf of re-agents and sent them to mingle with the debris on the floor.
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