Her delicate hands left abominable traces and themselves decomposed whatever they had broken.
And he in his imbecile condition lent himself to this sort of sport, for he was possessed by vaguely remembered stories of saints who were devoured by vermin and in turn devoured their own excrements.

When once she had him fast in her room and the doors were shut, she treated herself to a man's infamy.

At first they joked together, and she would deal him light blows and impose quaint tasks on him, making him lisp like a child and repeat tags of sentences.
"Say as I do: 'tonfound it! Ickle man damn vell don't tare about it!" He would prove so docile as to reproduce her very accent.
"'Tonfound it! Ickle man damn vell don't tare about it!" Or again she would play bear, walking on all fours on her rugs when she had only her chemise on and turning round with a growl as though she wanted to eat him.

She would even nibble his calves for the fun of the thing.

Then, getting up again: "It's your turn now; try it a bit.