Sheila was finishing her laughter as Lucy brought an elbow down on the back of her head, expertly snapping the vertebra that connected Sheila’s head to her shoulders. “And some of them quite pretty and well dressed. “La belle ‘Alcide,’ wasn’t it? Annabel Pellissier was her real name. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. He slackened his pace as he reached the flat.
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