In this state, he contrived to get the poor black's hand into his mouth, and nearly bit off one of his fingers before the sufferer could be rescued. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. She was faint from hunger, her head spinning into dizziness, the blood madness readying for battle. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. ‘And it is me you dare accuse? It is yourself you should arrest.
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