She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll. “Don’t think that I have been playing the spy upon you,” he continued. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. But the relief from the strain of her immediate necessities was immense.
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