A nurse came hurrying up. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. “I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive. “I ate their mother first. “Come sit with me, beautiful. “Do you need me to tell you? You have tasted the luxury of power. This one too she read. But she could tell by the dullness of his eyes that he saw only some inner vision. They don’t now. She cried as he watched, frozen to the ground. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn.
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