She screamed as she saw that their throats had been ripped out and their dead eyes bulged with horror as their heads lolled from mere strings of sinew and flesh. She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. There, in a little tea and sweetstuff shop, she bought and consumed slowly and absent-mindedly the insufficient nourishment that is natural to her sex on such occasions. Soon the trunk, portmanteau and hat box were ready. She walked over to them still carrying the trousers in her hands, and stooped to examine them. Other phrases returned now, like echoes. People running, screaming, hiding. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. “Have you turned him yet?” Michelle whispered hotly, trying not to raise the volume of her voice. "He left an envelope with some money in it. There was—a service.
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