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Squeeze the life’s blood from his beating heart, my girl, and get a little of your own back from him.” “Had he one to speak of, I might be tempted to do just that,” Lydia said savagely. Giles chuckled. “If you might only have seen him last evening, you would know he has got one indeed—and it isn’t buried so far down as either of you imagine. He wears it here,” he said, with a gesture of one hand. “Just upon his sleeve. Yours for the taking.” Or, perhaps, for the breaking.
How cruel it was that certain crucial things could be understood only in retrospect.
“For so long—years—I believed her to be untrustworthy, when all along I was the one who could not be trusted.”
“Of course you are my concern,” he said. “I will not pretend otherwise, however much you might prefer it. You have every right to be angry with me, Lydia, but not about this.”
