She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. “It’s odd—I have no doubt in my mind that what we are doing is wrong,” he said.
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