But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. ‘Well, young man,’ he said, ‘we haven’t seen you lately,’ and something about ‘Bateson & Co. 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. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch.
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