Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker. ’ ‘Comment? You wish to murder me?’ ‘No, I wish to beat you,’ he retorted. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers.
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