Murderess, murderess, he whispers to himself. It has an allure, a scent almost. Hothouse gardenias. Lurid, but also furtive. He imagines himself breathing it as he draws Grace towards him, pressing his mouth against her. Murderess. He applies it to her throat like a brand.
More Quotes from Margaret Atwood:Gardening is not a rational act.
It's necessary to reserve a secret vice.
I'm curious. If someone says 'Don't open that door', I'm right there
For years I wanted to be older, and now I am.
We are a society dying, said Aunt Lydia, of too much choice.
There were a few other moves of his father's he could do without as well - the sucker punches, the ruffling of the hair, the way of pronouncing the word son, in a slightly deeper voice. This hearty way of talking was getting worse, as if his father were auditioning for the role of Dad, but without much hope.
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