***** The general office was an extension of the west wing of the McClintock bungalow. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. Standing over the pierced Rhea, Lucy bayed, a long cry that was half-scream and half-howl. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. There'll be busy days and idle. There are some islands upon which he is not permitted to land any more. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral.
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