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. And yet the secondary emotion was one of suspicion. She would just walk out of the house and go. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. Its shouting now did in some occult manner convey a protest that Mr. . I can’t help you a cent.
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