I wasn't sure love was enough to save him from Belle Morte. I laid the photos out in front of him, in a neat row of black and white carnage. Her white dress was half crimson. Anita, Anita, what's wrong? He held me, turned me to look at him.
It's my fault, I said. He landed in the gutter beside his motor-bike,sobbing and bleeding. In the dining room a huge door from a demolished building somewhere in the city had beenhandsomely stripped, teaked and refinished. I believe Anita wishes me in her bed.
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