In the silent early hours of a spring night, the man knelt by the bedside, his warm and calloused hand still holding her smooth, petite foot. His voice was low and seductive as he asked, "I remember you used to call him Griffith brother?"
Under the dim light of the night lamp, the man's handsome face was indistinct. Delphine's small foot was gripped tightly by his fingertips, causing her to cry out in pain. A vague sense of unease washed over her, and she instinctively tried to withdraw her foot as she replied, "I don't really remember. We just went to the same school in the past."
Ignatius narrowed his phoenix-like eyes and said expressionlessly, "I guess I'm too old now; we never attended the same school."
The tone of his words was so sour it could almost rot teeth. Finally, Delphine understood why he was acting so strangely. She had merely asked a question, and here he was, as if he'd overturned a whole jar of jealousy.
