. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. It is your own choice, isn’t it?” She nodded. “Dear me!” he said. She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer.
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