"Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. For all you might know, I might have someone watching you. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. That is how I learned that there were such things as novels. Perhaps the sunken cheeks and the protruding cheekbones gave her this impression. It was a habit of his to talk to himself. “That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. " And, as if to make the moral more obvious, a dirty pack of cards was scattered, underneath, upon the sawdust.
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