Katy’s face was vapid and undistinguishable from a crowd, but pretty in an abstract sense, like the face of a baby doll. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. The woollen-draper looked at his watch. Here you are, young, sound, with a heart that will recover in no time, provided you keep liquor out of it. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other.
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