The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. CHAPTER XII. “I dare not,” she answered. I will do all this not because I love you, but—because you are Anna’s sister. One OUGHT to want to please her. Forgive my daring. I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently. His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was. Anna went out. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. All the influences about her worked with her own predisposition and against all the traditions of her home and upbringing to deal with the facts of life in an unabashed manner. I can’t help you a cent.
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