“You need have no further trouble. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it. As he pocketed it, her open palm reached out and slapped his cheek. Wood, in indignant surprise. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach.
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