Here was one of those Americans who would make him breathless before sundown. He was an old, skilled vampire. In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. Her breath came fast in little sobbing pants. Burn your palette and your easel. “I did not,” Anna answered. She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer.
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