It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. On an empty cask, which served him for a chair, and opposite Jack Sheppard, whose rapid progress in depravity afforded him the highest satisfaction, sat Blueskin, encouraging the two women in their odious task, and plying his victim with the glass as often as he deemed it expedient to do so. ‘They cannot be worse than mine in English, monsieur. But it was her proof. He breathed a little sigh of satisfaction.
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