Ah Coom. For awhile he watched the revolving light on Copeley's. He rested on one elbow. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. And yet, as she rose slowly to her feet and stood looking at him with outstretched hands, a strange mixture of expressions shining in her wonderful eyes, he realized in some measure the strength of her determination, felt the utter impotence of anything which he could say to her. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still.
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