She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll. You truly are your mother’s, Lucia. . "Ah!" she screamed, seeing the uplifted weapon in Sheppard's hand, "don't hurt Thames—don't, dear Jack! If you want to kill somebody, kill me, not him. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man.
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