Give me my pistol and my dagger. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. And, if Rachel had not carried a candle, the room would have been plunged in total darkness. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity.
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