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. But you are Annabel. Ramage demurred. ’ ‘You see, I am of them,’ she said seriously, ‘but not with them—yet. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard.
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