" "That is your fault, none of mine. I’m the sort of dog, if you turn it out of the room it lies down on the mat at the door. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. 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. Almost instantly she had recognized the fallacy of such a statement. Wild's orders. He recoiled from the sting.
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