She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. Well might she do so, Gerald thought in irritation. Saren Chen was a tall woman, thin and beautiful in a masculine way, Germanic. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. ” “Touch you I mean?” She looked around.
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