You had expected Elliot to wait until after the burial. his victory lap for the repast, when the casseroles come out and the old women are too tired to track who is standing too close to whom. But Elliot had never been as patient as he believed he was. He walked into St. Bartholomew’s with his mistress clinging to his arm, the church doors swinging open behind them as if the day itself were there to announce his appetite.
The whole sanctuary noticed.
