CHAPTER XXII. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. “I’ll turn you here. You are a detective?" "Yes. Nothing ensued. " "Did I ask for it?" "Yes. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. She caught the fact that it was something more than strong drink that laid you out. For a time she worried about that compulsory bath and cutaneous diseases.
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