XII JACK SHEPPARD A Romance BY W. But his treasured dream lay shattered at his feet. She hadn't meant to ask anything for herself. Too bad he’s not interested in any girl who’s not a musician. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. 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. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips.
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