He took his social pleasures once a year in Hong-Kong, after Easter. “Do you think he’s still around?” She paused thoughtfully. When she was done she checked the patio door and carried his body into the garage, burying his remains next to the ten year old girl he had raped and killed last autumn, whose bones were starting to show in small areas where the maggots had feasted. Don’t be afraid to go on thinking it. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket.
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