As he returned to the table, he put his finger to his nose; and, though he said nothing, he thought he had a much better chance of winning his wager. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. When she was done she checked the patio door and carried his body into the garage, burying his remains next to the ten year old girl he had raped and killed last autumn, whose bones were starting to show in small areas where the maggots had feasted. Well, I don't think they'll any of 'em nab him, that's one comfort. But what a monster was this Emile. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor.
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