For all that, it is folly. Notwithstanding the heat of the season,—which was not, however, found particularly inconvenient in this subterranean region,—a large heaped-up fire blazed ruddily in one corner, and lighted up a circle of as villanous countenances as ever flame shone upon. Running to Gosse, she seized the portrait from his hand and lashed out, taking him off guard, so that he staggered back and fell against the card table. This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Hoddy. “But your sister,” he said.
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