Yeah, Cerrit, my man. My bird. Detective, as it were, come aside with me for a moment. Your hostess? She is not worrying less. In fact, she seems to be worrying more. Her eyes are downcast, her sharp teeth working at her lip. Blindly she reaches for the spoon in her bowl of coals, misses, and burns her fingertips; these she puts in her wine without looking up, or crying out in pain.