” “But your dinner!” she protested. "I can never get poor Tom's last look out of my head, as he stood in the Stone-Hall at Newgate, after his irons had been knocked off, unless I manage to stupify myself somehow. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. The threadbare remainders of the dinner discussion hovered over the topics of obsessive fans of the science fiction and horror genres. And, if I'd my own way, I'd drown 'em all like a litter o' puppies. ” She turned and fitted the latchkey into the door. ” She repeated, as if she answered an objector: “A sort of blacklegging.
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