She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. Jack, meanwhile, heard, the shouts, and, though alarmed by them, held on a steady course. His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. The moviegoers exited the cinema in the customary daze that resulted from two hours of sensory bombardment. “And yet you still live, Butterfly.
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