Lupus Cain, you cold-blooded, a-nomic beast! What did you do when your very own eyes beheld the most perfect daughter of Sarai ever to walk this pagan corner of goyish ground? Did you pluck out your eyeballs to save your sordid soul? Or did you look twice, reveling in those most perfect angles, shapes, shades, and tones?
He who hath ears, let him hear. Your fallen race of wolves has but three (sexless, barren, indeed monstrous) children: the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life. May your maker cut you off from the land of the living. May you go down to Sheol forever and ever. May Adamic humanity never feel the shake of your bloodcurdling howl again.