She screamed as she saw that their throats had been ripped out and their dead eyes bulged with horror as their heads lolled from mere strings of sinew and flesh. Her bonnet dropped off and was trampled into the gutter. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. ‘Which is why I feel sure he will utterly repulse the girl, even if she is his granddaughter. " "On the contrary, if that is a specimen, they must be poets. The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. “Who is the tenant of these rooms?” he inquired.
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