I who live and die contemplate you, the stars. The earth no longer holds the child she has carried. Close to the gods in the night of a hundred veils my infinitesimal being joins to your vastness. And I taste my share of eternity. -- Ptolemy (as translated by Marguerite Yourcenar)
So this is what making others suffer felt like: a kind of boredom, composed of torpor, morosity and a feeble ghost of guilt -- the guilt over feeling nothing, in fact -- a mixture of what was finally benign, and didn't prevent Gaby from appreciating the light's ochre density this autumn noon, or, alas, her stomach from rumbling.
She had already moved on, she was walking alone and triumphant, trailing her ethereal scent, she was on her way to another place to disturb the infallible and the righteous-minded.