It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. The delay was only momentary. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there.
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