She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. ‘I have no idea. Lucy tried not to notice the starched smell, overpowering and powdery. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. ” “But I can’t help but notice from your bookshelf that you read all sorts of horror and science fiction.
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