She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. " "Iss, missis," grinned the black. He seemed to do ten things before she could think to do one, to leap upon her and take possession. 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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