Margaret Atwood “The Edible Woman”

He must have been equipped with a kind of science-fiction extra sense, a third eye or an antenna. Although his face was turned away so he couldn’t see mine, he said in a soft dry voice, “I can tell you’re admiring my febrility. I know it’s appealing, I practice at it; every woman loves an invalid. I bring out the Florence Nightingale in them. But be careful.” He was looking at me now, cunningly, sideways. “You might do something destructive: hunger is more basic than love. Florence Nightingale was a cannibal, you know.”
My calmness was shattered. I felt mice-feet of apprehension scurrying over my skin. What exactly was I being accused of? Was I exposed? I could think of nothing to say. – Margaret Atwood “The Edible Woman”