She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. He will let you live if it pleases him. When I examined you for ‘ill humors’ I longed to run my hands over your entire body, to touch your face, to caress you in the places that would give you pleasure. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. Wood, popping her head through the window. “It is hateful—diabolical!” he exclaimed. Wood was once a favourite of yours.
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