" Half an hour later she laid aside the book. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. He was smiling under his heavy mustache, and his head was a little on one side as he looked at her. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet, and collapsed upon the floor. She sat very still, and his eyes rested on that ornament for a moment, and then travelled slowly to her wrist and the soft lines of her forearm. ‘I am nine-and-twenty,’ he answered.
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