They bickered frequently now as Gianfrancesco protested the prices of things like funeral candles and poultices to comfort the dying. don’t have time. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. ‘Burned them, one by one, right before that fellow’s eyes. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men.
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