It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. "The part was crooked," she explained. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. "Nothing whatever," rejoined the thief-taker, coldly. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. Above her head was an aura of white fire. Sheppard's weight had destroyed the equilibrium of the plank: it swerved, and slowly descended.
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