She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. She felt herself shaking again. Everything. C. Presently her aunt sighed deeply and looked at the clock. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Ah! I shall never forget the figure Jack cut on that occasion.
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