"As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. But not so much a pig as that man. Suddenly Anna felt her hand seized and imprisoned in Courtlaw’s burning fingers. “But your sister?” he asked. “Why not?” “Because you are mine. The houses loomed progressively larger as one strode up the block, growing from ranch to two-story, from squat 1950's modern to stately 1890's palace. He kissed her once on the lips with a passion of which, during all their days of married life, he had given no sign.
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