“Nor am I now,” he answered. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. She quickly strangled him with the piano wire as he looked at her, his lips open as if to scream, but his larynx had been intentionally sliced. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated.
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