Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. I’ve no name for it yet. “I am very glad to hear you say it,” he repeated, and refrained from further inquiry. It was a clear, lovely, October morning. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an innocent child.
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