’ ‘Not French?’ echoed Hilary. Ennison listened, and his eyes glowed. Most of my people are upstairs dressing for dinner. 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. . Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day.
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