She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. “I wonder which of us is right,” she said. The latter has, since, been induced to unite herself to Sir Cecil, on terms originating with her brother, and which, however strange and unprecedented, were acquiesced in by the suitor. Just as I might have killed another, if he had come out. Of this I'm certain, however, she was much too good for him, and was never meant to be a journeyman carpenter's wife, still less what is she now. All three, then, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter.
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