"I have nearly done," replied the stranger. Then the inner door opened abruptly. "Don't mention it," returned Wood, in the conciliatory tone of one who admits he has been in the wrong; "your explanation is perfectly satisfactory. But at this, he halted, turning his frowning gaze back on her. Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities. So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. “You understand, then,” he was saying, “you understand?” “I understand,” said Ann Veronica, tear-wet and flushed with a reciprocal passion, but standing up to him with an equality that amazed even herself, “I understand. We meant to make it dinner and a theatre, but you were not home. Nor had Jack been idle all this time. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. Fascination.
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