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Slowly a mirthless and very unpleasant smile dawned upon his face. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. "Let us fly from this frightful place. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. The buboes broke and God took Lucia's mother. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat.
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