He walked hastily to the side of the broad pavement and summoned a fiacre. Of you, I mean. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. I could tell it was Italian, you see. She had never seen so much food in her life as she saw at her own wedding feast. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. And you’d better have her fetch in some food for the missie, an’ all. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend. She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor. She kept her face downcast. She brought her face to his chest, turning her head sideways so he would not notice her elongated canines.
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