Her tiny legs, more precious to the man than his own life, swung about aimlessly, finally landing on Roland's trembling knee, rubbing against it like a mouse.
Vinea on the dining table continued to leisurely wipe her mouth, removing her red child shoes, she slipped on overripe stockings and started friction rub with her soft and elastic feet reminiscent of a kitten's paw pad, relentlessly tormenting Roland.
"Mr. Dark, you are what they call a perverted introvert, aren't you?"
Even though she only reached up to the waist of the adolescent, the childlike Vinea spoke condescendingly, uttering words that a lady should never speak.
Roland had no way of responding, focusing on pounding his chest to save himself, not wanting to choke to death on wine and bread – a ridiculous cause of death that would be propagated elaborately. The boy was risking his life.
