“You—ate them?” said Mary. “How could you . . .” She had been fascinated by the story—as they all had been, judging by their faces in the lamplight. Holmes was leaning forward, his fingers tented in a way she was coming to recognize. It meant he was turning something around and around in his mind, considering every angle. Even Diana had stayed quiet for all this time. But it was a gruesome story as well. Mary did not know whether to feel greater pity for Catherine’s suffering or horror at the cruelty of Moreau. Those Beast Men, doomed to die on their remote island . . .
