The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth. The third time she escaped she reached the inconsequent barricade of the overturned table. She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing. Rhea’s head exploded into a spray of blood, brain, and bone. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. “I trust,” he said, “that you will recognize the justice of these conditions.
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