“MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. 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. She dumped him because she claimed she didn’t want him to go any farther. Gerald’s thoughts raced as he reached out supporting hands and murmured meaningless phrases to soothe. Of course, I can't promise you the job definitely. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. I found him once in my rooms, and I believe that he had a key to my front door. Pause. "Your sympathy is being wasted.
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