A NAKED WOMAN IN PARIS.

In the shadows behind her a homicidal love nest of tossed bed sheets, knotted promises and abandoned clothing.
The spoils of a front line, where she the victor had prowled like a predator and won.

She swung her entire frame from the black wrought iron rail like a gothic raven with the ability to fly and cocked her head off centre to survey Marais street walkers, five balconies below.
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