The threadbare remainders of the dinner discussion hovered over the topics of obsessive fans of the science fiction and horror genres. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. I did not know what I was saying. ‘You are, I think, a gentleman, no?’ Gerald bowed. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. They shall hear of me no more. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. You denied it, remembering that I had called myself Anna. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. Excited by the scene, Jack, however, could pay little attention to the good man's discourse, and was lost in a whirl of tumultuous emotions.
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