She could neither speak nor move nor cry out. She received into her slack grasp the pistol and dagger, only half aware of taking them. She was finally dead, going to Hell. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. ’ ‘Yes,’ she agreed, but her manner was a degree less warm. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation.
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