But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. Madame Valade was that kind of woman. She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll. “I believe that he would bore me. She slipped on a white clingy imitation silk tee-shirt, a sexy number that Shari had bought on super-sale at the Limited. “I want a vote for myself,” she said.
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