Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. There were two sisters, you know. The effects of the heroin wore off slowly. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. But you have, haven’t you?’ He tutted again. During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed. "Dead!" echoed the boy. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. It simply doesn’t count. She was faint from hunger, her head spinning into dizziness, the blood madness readying for battle.
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