Her long, black hair was unbound, like a cloak around a dressing gown of gold and black. My ears started ringing. He was a few inches under six feet, a slender dark man, with large graceful hands, wearing more knives than anyone I'd met in a long time. She'd come to stand in front of us.
A vision out of Bosch; a bit of underdone potato or undigested Dali, hurled forthfrom a dream-image by Hogarth; a pantomime out of the innermost circle of Dante’s Inferno. He's too weak to take blood. His keys on their chain were massive, and in his massive hand they seemed to fit. Sound returned with a rush, and Belle Morte's voice slid out of Musette's mouth.
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