Lucy had tried for years to find a way of not getting blood all over herself when she made a kill. Ants. His reputation was slightly tainted by his marriage to her mother, an exotic blue-eyed raven-haired beauty, a Gypsy doll with a clandestine heritage. Gerald glanced down and saw her dash at a spread of blood on his own hand, only now realising that her dagger had found its mark. The smile had become a laugh. It’s a world of dirt and skin diseases and parasites. But she disapproved more and more of her own mental austerity. Then she would be dead, and that was no use. You are not my husband.
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