The image did not move. For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room. Wood turned to look at him. She was no longer certain that she desired an Englishman, if she must judge of one in particular. "It is addressed to my mother," he added, as his eye glanced rapidly over it, "and by my father. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach.
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