Lucy had tried for years to find a way of not getting blood all over herself when she made a kill. I had no idea. I offered myself as a clerk, as a milliner, as a shop girl. But the aunt seized her in her arms and rocked with her. This gloom was impossible. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall.
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