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In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. "It's a great world," was the manager's greeting. He was vaguely uneasy; he knew not what about. He was engaged in detesting Manning and himself in almost equal measure. Then blackness. The idiots are marching through the streets in processions from town to town, whipping their own backs until they are covered in blood, spreading the bloody Pestilence wherever they go! The dead pile in the streets like timber. They became aware of the waitress standing over them with book and pencil ready for their bill. She has not been accused of any crime.
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