Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. “I can assure you that it was quite unnecessary. Cathy got a second job as a receptionist. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark.
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