I’ve heard some junk in my time . . .
Presently my turn came, and I took my seat at the table and shuffled the pack. Only pausing to take my cigarette from my mouth, use it to light her own and then replace it between my lips, Miss Roach picked up the cards and began the rites of prophecy.
What first she said I forget, but it was thin enough stuff. As a matter of fact, she seemed puzzled: something—some combination, she said, kept turning up. Finally she dropped the cards and took hold of my hand, holding it flat on the table, palm up, and blinking at it through the smoke of her cigarette.
“You’re on the eve of meeting someone,” she said: “someone who’ll influence your life to an amazing extent. They’ll affect your outlook more violently than anything else in your life. They’ll alter all your plans. The queer thing is they’ll do it indirectly. You’ll hardly see them at all.”
“Will they do me good or harm?”
“I can’t say. But, whichever it is, they’ll do it through somebody else. It’s a terrific influence.”
“In fact, I shall be swept off my feet?”
She frowned.
“Not exactly. Your existence will be changed. What’s so remarkable is that you retaliate. You’re going to influence their life even more strongly still. Only, your influence will be direct and—and concrete.”
“Concrete?” said I.