She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll. "Under the table. Three more people came to meet them at the door. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. By the side of her plate was a small key. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time.
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