“I murder people, John. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. Someone had thoughtfully wrapped a bit of tissue paper round the electric bulb. Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. Sheppard. By instinct.
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