A woman touched him lightly on the arm, and smiled into his face. He called a waiter. He’s got flowers. I do not choose the vicomte, for that would be foolish. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. New customs have prevailed over the old. From his pale skin and inky hair color it was apparent that his ancestry was half-Hispanic and half-European, perhaps French. She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town. You’re neither of you any longer under arrest.
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