“I suppose all life is an affair of chances. There was nothing left now of the selfassured, prosperous man of affairs. . " But she did not complete the thought aloud. She fondled his penis which was stiff and straining against his pants. She wanted to scream, but there was no one to scream for. “Am I hurting you?” She asked. . " "What's that?" asked Wood with some curiosity. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. “You propose, then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. Then I came to London and tried almost everything—all failures. Anything else that was said she now regarded only as an aspect of or diversion from that.
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