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. The key's in the lock, on the inner side. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. "There, Sir," she added, unlocking the door, "you can go in. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight.
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