What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. Manning, relinquishing his cup without answering her question, “when I hear you talk of earning a living, it’s as if I heard of an archangel going on the Stock Exchange—or Christ selling doves. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. Unless they remind him now and then not to. “Why come after me after all these years, Sebastianus? Haven’t you found any sycophants to convert, any nubile young nymphets to bring into the cannibal flock?” “Why should I do that if there is still the chance of you?” “What if there could be no chance of me? How do you know you can have me?” “I see your game. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night.
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