That’s how it takes me. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. Vorsack sat alone at his computer in his pajamas. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. She read for half an hour, then closed the book because Spurlock appeared to have fallen asleep. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite. She wondered wildly why she had stood up.
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