The night had passed in a daze. She remembered that she'd gone to the Royal Opera House, lord knows what they saw.
Everything after the first drink at the bar was a bit of a haze. She vaguely remembered some accusations, a triumphant
predatory smile from the Right Honourable Matilda Miffington-Smythe, that bloody bitch. And being set up. And a big
man with an East London accent telling her she was for it now, and to drink up like a good girl.
She realised it was the dawn light that had woken her. That and the pain in her wrists where the rope was biting in.
She was spread out on some sort of metal frame in some grubby warehouse, presumably in the East End. She wondered what
exacly the big man had meant by the last words she remembered from last night, about taking it out on her arse....
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