She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. He uttered a deep groan, but said nothing. . It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. He had adroitly captured her and led her away from her other guests on the pretext of feigning an interest in her charitable attitude to the newly arrived French. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. But, indeed, he’s very human.
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