She's my mealticket. "Jack Sheppard," returned the boy, fixing his eyes upon a portrait of the Earl of Mar. Hadn’t the stomach to admit the truth, had he? I’ll lay any money he labelled you with some foul French name as well. Of all the amazing coincidences. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. His appetite was perfectly Gargantuan.
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