He set the tray on the crate beside the cot, then stepped back to admire her against the grey limestone. In the single bulb’s jaundiced light, she was still beautiful. Still his rarest specimen . He had pinned her without touching a wing.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said. And turned the key again. 1965 the collector
The key turned in the lock—not with a sharp click, but a soft, fat thud, like a stone sinking into still water. Frederick Clegg, formerly of the counting house, collector of rare butterflies, felt his ribs tighten with pleasure. He had her now. He set the tray on the crate beside
“I thought you’d like the Darjeeling,” he said. His voice was a pale, apologetic thing. “Not the everyday kind.” but a soft
