You’re a piss-poor liar, John. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. He opened the door of still another room, in one corner of which was a grand piano. The Becks as a 187 family didn’t talk or ruminate over Mike’s or Lucy’s past much. She quickly strangled him with the piano wire as he looked at her, his lips open as if to scream, but his larynx had been intentionally sliced. Always.
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