Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad. He was in the house with his mother. Someone had thoughtfully wrapped a bit of tissue paper round the electric bulb. She screamed as she saw that their throats had been ripped out and their dead eyes bulged with horror as their heads lolled from mere strings of sinew and flesh. ‘It is not for myself, you understand,’ pursued the man, in an unctuous tone that sickened the general, ‘but for this poor one. The decision had been sound.
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