Anne Rice - v1, Lasher

His hand was heavy and slightly cold too cold but the

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Unformatted text preview: e. She told them once to bring you up home, but they never did. She's my great-grandmother." "Ah, yes, the Mayfairs of Amelia Street," he said. "The big pink house." He gave a little yawn again, and forced himself into a more truly upright position. "Bea pointed out the house. Nice house. Italian- ate. Bea said Gifford grew up there." Italianate. Architectural term, late nineteenth century. "Yeah, well, it's a New Orleans bracketed style, as we call it," she said. "Built 1882, remodeled once by an architect named Sully. Full of all kinds of junk from a plantation called Fontevrault." He was intrigued. But she didn't want to talk history and plaster. She wanted him. "So will you please let me stay here?" she asked. "I really really have to stay here now, Uncle Michael. I mean, like, there's not really any other possibility now, logically, I mean. I should stay." He sat against the pillows, struggling to keep his eyes ope...
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