She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. “Your mother was a Gypsy. What has been the matter?” “Toothache,” he answered laconically. I waited until he was asleep and then I tied him up with some duct tape and some old rope he had in the shed. ‘His wife? Pah!’ ‘You’re saying she is not his wife?’ ‘I am saying nothing. . A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived.
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