” She wanted to feast upon him badly, his passion, his youthfulness. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. “I suppose some one makes a bit on the food,” she said. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. "The sums lavished upon those people are perfectly disgraceful, and I should be enchanted to see them hooted from the stage. “You blithering idiot!” he exclaimed. Michelle tossed her hair like a young colt flicking its tail. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. “I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand.
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