It is positively hateful to think of it. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. Concealed among the trees that edged the estate grounds, the watchers paused. Sheppard. He could see lust virtually dripping from the dark-haired boy’s maw as she teased every last note from her shuddering violin, the devil in a black skirt. The shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. And always they were well satisfied.
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