Sara Morton lay at the foot of a twin bed that had a rumpled spread and a knotted pillow. There was an ugly gash in her throat and blood stained the rich carpeting around a shaggy, soaked white rug under her head and shoulders.
Shayne's first reaction was, oddly, one of numbing disappointment, for now he would never really know what sort of a person Sara Morton had been.
(from This Is It, Michael Shayne, by Brett Halliday)
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