“That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. The walls of the room were lined with shelves, on which were glass jars, retorts, countless bottles and many appliances of surgical science. ’ She shrugged fatalistically. . “None, I thank you,” he answered. “What if you get pregnant?” His worry came to a quick fruition. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. She might even forgive him. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. Shari proceeded to paint, brush, dust, slather, and blot Lucy’s face with makeup.
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