Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. ” “John, do you remember me at all?” “Lucy?!” He cried in disbelief. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. For freedom at least. ” He was arrested for a moment by an indistinct picture of Veronica reading this last sentence. Buck up. "How is the patient?" he asked. Presently, however, a sudden movement occurred, and disclosed his features, which were those of a young man of nearly his own age. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. And there's your liver.
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