She found her foster father and Mike still awake, playing high stakes UNO at the dimly lit kitchen table. "If you two loved each other," went on the doctor, "there would be something to stand on—a reason why for this madness. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Let him be sure. Which are you—Valade or Charvill? Or, no, let me guess.
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