The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant. If there was a Yankee bar-keep in HongKong, James Boyle would soon locate him. They litter up the room. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. Full as she was of him, it felt good to shower her kill out of her hair.
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