Hanna stood over Dr. Anthony’s shoulder as he worked, partly out of interest in the biopsy procedure, partly just to annoy him. She breathed intently in long slow breaths down Anthony’s collar, thrilling in the power of it all, feeling his rage simmering only millimetres from her lips. She wished to wash herself in his rage, roll in it, drench and quench herself in his suppressed horror and his apparent helplessness. As the biopsy crimp exited from Harold Shipwater’s nose, Hanna felt a moist thrill quiver deep within. The cauldron of hate that once was the great R.V. Anthony had served his use for the day. There was a smart single rap on the door, just as Hanna liked it, and an aide entered stiff-faced and alert.
'Yes, Nassian, what is it?’ Hanna asked, turning and stepping away from her thrills.