” “You are willing to give up your position, your beautiful houses, your carriages and milliner’s accounts to come back to Bohemianism?” “Why not?” Annabel declared. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. All human food tasted equally dead and loathsome to her, whether it was prime steak or cheap hamburger. Mr. Winter came: rainy, damp, and savage. Treasure caves to explore! All through these trying days she had recurrently wondered what this strange young man would have to say that Dickens and Hugo had not already said. She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll. There was no one else in the doorway. The baby boy was delivered in a sea of black blood, born dead and blue, and strangled by plague. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate.
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