“And yet you still live, Butterfly. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. She could not say a word, much less move. She watched, puzzled, as her cavalier frowned at the newcomer, glancing from him to Melusine and back again. She left them and went back to Sebastian, never uttering a word about her visit. He said simply that he wanted her to live at home. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. He no longer made love to her, as there was no point. I make no apology for not being with you now. ” Everything was good. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. . ’ A little sigh escaped her.
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