\" Diane Vorsack chirped with the grin of a Cheshire Cat, extending her right hand in greeting. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. But he. You are—or rather you were——” he corrected himself with an unpleasant little laugh, “Miss Pellissier, eh?” A little sensation followed upon his words.
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