" "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. That had taken her by surprise, and her tired wits had failed her. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. "Never—never!" The words were scarcely pronounced, when the door was violently thrown open, and two men appeared at it. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. You see, we guys bump up against so much of the seamy side that we look upon everybody as guilty until proved innocent, which is hind-side-to.
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