The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. Huge trees obscured the view of it. ‘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. Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. .
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