Quilt's manner, indeed, was that of a man endeavouring to muster up sufficient resolution for the commission of some desperate crime. She asked the inevitable question, the one she knew Michelle was waiting to field like a quarterback anticipating the pass. There was a stain of wine upon her dress. Lucy vomited onto the floor at the sight of her mother dying, the black spots expanding across her corpse. The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of defence, with the child in his arms.
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