"In the half-light of the abbatoir, through the hanging animal carcasses and dangling entrails, she could see him, naked and glistening, dark red pig blood slowly matting in his chest hair: This, she told herself, was what a real man looked like. As he turned and caught her eye, she shook with passion. In an exclamation, half sigh, half prayer, she gasped his name to the silent slaughterhouse: "Bruce... Bruce Forsythe." He grinned at her with a wolf-like smile. "Hello my dear," he whispered. "Nice to see you... To see you, nice..."