It wound around a small manufactured lake. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. She had Cathy’s predisposition to overweight and her hips were solid and thick under her jeans. "That gown is getting shabby. "You have defied me, and shall feel my power. Come along, my Newgate bird!" he continued, shaking him with great violence. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. He never finished his sentence. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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