They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. “Is Coke okay?” He asked as he pulled into the gas station. ” Ann Veronica fenced for a moment.
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