Uttering a terrible imprecation, Blueskin placed the knife between his teeth, and endeavoured to seize the poor woman by the throat. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. Look at the poor victim at your feet. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. The latch had not fully caught. Listening on the dimlit landing, he saw Roding’s face muscles tighten. “Martin, I don’t know what to say.
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