The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. “You remind me of a little blue stone I had once. ’ Upon which, she darted through the library door, galvanising both the sergeant and his two militiamen into action.
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