Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. One thing may be a necessary collateral of the others. The second look told me I was wrong.
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