Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. He was still thickly clad in jeans. She licked his neck, which put him over the top. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. Now keep still. He was by no means certain that she would not in fact attempt to blow off his head as she had threatened. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth.
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