“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. Nervously he pulled alongside the dilapidated oncewhite farmhouse. He must know she’ll be at a convent. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. Michelle and Missy chatted vigorously in the front seat, oblivious to both the world and other cars on the road. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. Back, that you may be close together. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. Instead of passing on, as Jack expected, these persons stopped opposite the cage, when one of them, as he judged from the sound, for he did not dare to look out of his hiding place, dismounted.
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