Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. “Showtime!” Martin cried. Why do I want him so badly? Why do I want him, and think about him, and fail to get away from him? “It isn’t all of me. Always her prayers ended—'And may my beautiful mother guide me!' No.
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