"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. 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. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. "Oh! Sir, if you'd seen her as I've seen her, you'd not wish her a continuance of misery. "Well, well, we'll say no more about it," replied Wood; "and, by way of changing the subject, let me advise you on no account to fly to strong waters for consolation, Joan. ” She gazed at him. She was making it up. It is just how things happen to be.
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