“Precious Christ!” cried Sir Balthasar, looking down at what lay on the floor. “Has he been torn by demons?”

“But Sir Alistair’s gaze was different. Those other men had looked at her with lust or speculation or crass curiosity, but they hadn’t been looking at her really. They’d been looking at what she represented to them: physical love or a valuable prize or an object to be gawked at. When Sir Alistair stared at her, well, he was looking at her.”

“There's nothin left,I used to cry,My conversation has run dry,Thats whats going on,Nothing's fine I'm torn.”

“But I wasn't done," she pouted, no longer hungry for anything but him. "Yes, you were.""Yes, sir.""Lay down on your back.""Very yes, sir.”

“With shaking hands, I hold the letter and slide my back down the wall until I'm on the floor. My tears drop on what he's written, leaving blurred ink in its place. I cry for everything that's lost. I cry that he gave up. I cry for the anger in his words. I cry that he's found someone that has made him consider letting me go. I cry for the day I ever met him and thought I could handle someone like him. I cry that the girl he met that day in the restaurant is long gone.And I cry because I don't know what to do with this person that's left.”

“...And, all at once, the moon arouse through the thin ghastly mist, And was crimson in color... And they lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom. And lay down at the feet of the demon. And looked at him steadily in the face.”