The change in her face was not a pleasant one. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. Each was draped in transparent silk, dancing, beckoning to me, teasing me. But a man is a mixed creature. ‘You, soldiers,’ she yelled.
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