It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced. Mr. She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. And imprinting a kiss upon his mother's cold lips, he left the room. ‘Me, I have a name.
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