The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. For she needed him. “I had the pleasure of—er—meeting you more than once, I believe. A day will come when you will thank me. ” He groaned. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. . .
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