She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Strongly impregnated with the mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling. For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. " And, as if to make the moral more obvious, a dirty pack of cards was scattered, underneath, upon the sawdust. She had begun alone.
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