The old man waved a hand at my tepid ward. “It’s alright. I get the allure of those rags. But don’t you know there’s plenty of murder in classic literature, too?” I hadn’t really thought about it. “What kind of murder?” “All kinds, girl. Torture, rape, murder. Deceit! The deceit is what will get you,” he said, wagging a finger in the air. “To come in as a murderer and to murder is one thing. To come in as a friend, but to be a foe is another. Deceit is really the true crime of humanity.”
Deceit
