When she awoke, the sun was high in Heaven. But you belong to me—and I want you. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. You'd better lose no time. After all, where prayer fails, a pistol is bound to succeed. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. We shall see. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing.
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