\"Bye, Michelle. He could see lust virtually dripping from the dark-haired boy’s maw as she teased every last note from her shuddering violin, the devil in a black skirt. “In Paris. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. Wood heard the cry. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. An uncomfortable silence followed.
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