137 The living conditions of her kills were often so sordid that she would spend hours washing them off of her, and August brought her to the Greene River once again, scrubbing the stink from her hair with Ivory Liquid Dishwashing Detergent. She had never heard anything so unholy. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. She could no longer wait.
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