"My portrait!" echoed Jack. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. Then he relaxed back a little, and let the weapon dangle from his fingers. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. ‘Precisely. All my plans have succeeded.
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