She met his eyes for a moment, and could not interpret their expression. The arrested women were herded in a passage of the Panton Street Police-station that opened upon a cell too unclean for occupation, and most of them spent the night standing. He resented being regarded as irregular. She put her clothes back on, 118 lipstick smeared all over her face. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. So if they decided to watch television, there would be problems getting him out of the house, she would have to strangle him with piano wire, there was possibly of a struggle.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTM3LjE2Mi4xMDUgLSAxNy0wNi0yMDI0IDAzOjQwOjM5IC0gMTU4NzMzNTExNA==
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