She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer. Spurling. ‘This is altogether insupportable!’ She dug a hand into the recesses of the petticoat of her riding habit and a moment later Gerald found himself once again confronting the barrel of her overlarge and tarnished pistol. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied. There's a hundred pounds too much. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest.
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