“You have put all your life in my hands,” he declared. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. Stanley poured wine. He brought home her first “meal”, a man who he 77 claimed was a highwayman who had raped several women and was destined for the hangman’s noose. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. She wished she had not stood up.
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