That old chap has a remarkable range in reading. If my Mom found out, she’d kill me. In you—if you can love me—there is salvation. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. 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.
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