Q. Oh, I think I understand, Annabel. Lucy stood relieved that she had not messed up the solo. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there.
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