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It had been raining hard since five o’clock that morning. Brontean weather, Dr. Barrett thought. He repressed a smile. He felt rather like a character in some latter-day Gothic romance.
“Belasco never felt a twinge of guilt in his life.” “Which only serves to verify his mental aberration,” Barrett said.
When the front door had shut, Fischer moved to the table and lifted the covers of the trays. Lamb chops, peas and carrots, potatoes, biscuits, pie, and coffee. A Meal Fit for a King, he thought. His smile was dour. Or was it The Last Supper?
