Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. “I’ll never be happy again! I hate you! But most of all, what you have made me! A flesh-eating demon cannibal, just like you! I should be dead, dead and lying at the bottom of the sea. He slapped his knee. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese.
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