She waited expectantly. ‘I know, Melusine. Thwart me, and I become your mortal enemy. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. My only love is for my poor lost son. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. You promise me you’ll never grow old, you hear?” “I promise. I see now that you make a game with me indeed. But threats and entreaties—even promises were ineffectual; and the unlucky captive, after exhausting his powers of persuasion, was compelled to give up the point. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it.
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