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. Gerald liked her enormously. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. He felt his orgasm explode into her as his mouth was filled with bitter, metallic blood. But you don’t particularly want to do the job that sets you free—for its own sake. His wife met him at the door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge. “My dear Annabel,” she said, “this is delightful, but I thought that it was forbidden. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. It was obvious that he had waited for her. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes.
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