The chance had gone. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. It’s artificially chance. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Although Martha did not know it, she had her pistol and her daggers, and her knife. Bête, she told herself fiercely.
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