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The small room is darker now—not dark but a curtain has been closed (hotel folk do like their privacy.) From the incandescent doorway, his outstretched hands each present a thick brown shoe as if offering a new kind of coin to ferry-ride the river Styx. The creature ignores the offering, she’s no ferryman and sensible shoes aren’t her taste. Her eyes are closed, partly from pleasure and partly from a swollen face. Her hair stands outward in too many directions. She glistens.

“What have you done!”

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