One of his fingers was bleeding.

Perhaps it had become hooked in her earrings, perhaps a pin at her breast had scratched it.

He sucked the blood from the deep scratch, and then forgot the wound in order to gaze again at the body outstretched at his feet.
Little by little he was becoming accustomed to the diffused light of the room.

He was already beginning to see objects clearly.

His glance rested upon Freya with a look of mingled hatred and remorse.
Her head, sunk in the cushions, presented a pitiful profile.