“So how about this Friday?” He asked. His energy began to slip away and she sank her teeth into his fat carotid artery below the piano wire, which had drawn blood from his neck. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. “You too were deceived. "Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely. "Yes!" interrupted Spurlock, savagely.
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