He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. Far away there was the one woman for this boy of mine—some human being who would understand the dear fool better than all the rest of the world. Stay! I'll go myself. When Gianfrancesco came to call this time, she was excited and ready. When she was done she checked the patio door and carried his body into the garage, burying his remains next to the ten year old girl he had raped and killed last autumn, whose bones were starting to show in small areas where the maggots had feasted. “It’s all right,” he said, reassuringly to the inquirer without. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment.
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