“Do something!” But he laid by his prey, half-watching the fight, gorging on the woman he had caught that had been meant for Rhea and her child. “Turn me. ” He stuttered. Diane did not hear the footsteps on her brick patio or the audible click of the back door lock being compromised. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. Besides—there is Sir John. It looked very patient, she thought, and a little self-satisfied.
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