Paris is not the place for two young girls. 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. ‘You do not believe me?’ ‘I do not. You are the High Priestess of Life. If this is true, it must be owned that the boy's mouth showed a strong tendency on his part to coarse indulgence. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. Leastways, not on your own. “I never dreamt!” she said.
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