The future Mrs Roding turned bright, laughing eyes on the major. It was the crowned queen of mountains in her robes of shining white. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. She turned up dead after about eight weeks and it broke my heart. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. "They imagine their work is done. The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable look. .
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