The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. “Let me show you something. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. Superstition is the Chinese Reaper. She did her best to do this.
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