It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. Kneebone. Lucia had never been so happy, so content. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write.
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