‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. “He will find it difficult no doubt to alter his style of living,” she said. We shall be equally matched. ‘I must.
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