She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town. “That was a moment of madness,” she said. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. The intruder was handsomely, even richly, attired in a scarlet riding-suit, embroidered with gold; a broad belt, to which a hanger was attached, crossed his shoulders; his boots rose above his knee, and he carried a laced hat in his hand. They hissed me!” “Beasts!” he muttered. Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss.
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