“It was a phase,” she said. She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer. "Hell's curses!" roared Jonathan. The major’s hand stilled. “Tiffany’s?” He looked at her comically. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility.
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