She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. It was years before your time. She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. It’s 180 endearing. More than half the city perished. There was a second co-respondent. ’ She ended on a note of sheer frustration, clenched fists beating the air. She was emerging from the primordial as Spurlock was declining toward it. There's something queer about that young man; but we'll never be able to find out what it is.
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