I recall the good old days
But thankfully, they've gone
Now the ponies all are broken nags
That stumble as they groan
And throw the jockeys from their throne
When there are pitches left to dodge
And lions left to tame
But it's nothing but a dirty rotten shame
--Elvis Costello, Dirty Rotten Shame
He thinks about her sometimes, although she never knows it. The fact that he's after her siblings, alone, is enough to put her at unrest and keep her up all night. He knows -- he's watched her. Hair tumbling over her hands as she rests her face in their palms, shrouding the little Baudelaire girl in absolute shadow. The contrast between the dark curls laced through her fingers and the fair skin of her delicate arms brings about a certain incandescence. Even when thrown into the depths of despair, she's a picture of perfection.
A young girl that barely thinks to comb her hair -- let alone put on make-up and dress well -- achieving the thing women around the world strive for every day. How ironic.
He wonders if she knows about her beauty, if she has time to know. She spends all of her free time taking care of the two brats she carts around, quite as though she were their own haggard mother. Mature beyond comprehension for such an urchin. Much too pretty to be an urchin, as well... He wonders if she knows how well the light hits her face in the afternoon.
From his encampment outside the barn, he hears three sets of footsteps. Whispers. He thinks of her whispering.
He watches their silhouettes cross the horizon from where he hides in the weeds; watches them crouching as low as possible. He wonders how long he'll give them before he starts to follow. Perhaps he should follow now.
The thrill of the chase is much to entrancing to resist.