I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. This person—this Jonathan Wild, whom I beheld for the first time, scarcely an hour ago, in Wych Street, is—I know not why—my enemy. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. F.
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