Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. . It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. 13 Montague Street. Only her ungloved fingers, and the arms in their long tight sleeves as she held the heavy gun aloft, bore any sign of stiffness. ” He spoke loudly. "We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices. "I'll soon settle this business.
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