“I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. ‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘allow me a very tiny intimacy. You can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t care for me. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex—and love.
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