“I have had a trying evening and I need rest. . “Let us escape,” she said. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. When he found himself thinking about it, it upset him so that he at once resorted to distraction. There would be no mercy in this man. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. A small voice greeted her, hissing. I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century.
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