Montressor’s guests. Almost had Martha won out. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. ” “Well, you see, something has happened at home. You are my prisoner, murderer. ’ I said.
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