They must have a key. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. 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. Then Capes shifted his eyes to her microscope and the little trays of unmounted sections beside it.
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