Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question. Vaguely she heard the distinctive sound of male voices as she saw Gosse dive towards the fateful pew. The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood.
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