“Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls. I believed that she was my wife, or she would have been safe from me.
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