Sabine may not spend her hours reading texts, but she has had fifteen years in which to read Hector and Renata, front to back. Has studied both enough to know that Renata can be as cruel as she is ardent, always burning hot, while Hector swings like a pendulum between sulking and exuberant, uncanny stillness and sudden bursts of movement. Tonight, he is restless. He paces, sits and rises again, a sea churned up, as if possessed, ignited. It is beginning to annoy her.
