Wood required little pressing. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. She quickly strangled him with the piano wire as he looked at her, his lips open as if to scream, but his larynx had been intentionally sliced. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. I hate what I have to do to survive. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love.
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