They unloaded Michelle’s sleeping parents who had been propped up in the back seat, necks craned against each other. Ramage did not know. Lucy had tried for years to find a way of not getting blood all over herself when she made a kill. “Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands.
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