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’ He threw one arm across his own chest and clapped himself on the shoulder. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. ” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. Just then—I was nervous. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced. She leaned back as he climbed on top of her and kissed her mouth again. .
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