She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Ann Veronica realized that she was alone with the world. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. “It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully.
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