137 The living conditions of her kills were often so sordid that she would spend hours washing them off of her, and August brought her to the Greene River once again, scrubbing the stink from her hair with Ivory Liquid Dishwashing Detergent. “Do you want some of mine?” “Yes. It was clear she wanted to get away from home, that she was impatient to get away from home. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent.
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