Her hand grasped it firmly, and she pushed herself forward. You’re splendid stuff, you know, but you’ve got nothing ready to sell. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. ‘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. ’ At last. Ed.
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