He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. “You were married to him!” “It could not be legal,” Annabel moaned. It isn’t the same thing. “Yes,” she answered, looking away. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass. But you! Why the devil did you marry her? That's the thing that confounds me. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. So was I, in fact. Lassitude?” “I suppose so. 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.
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