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The Apartment #172

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Holding herself as rigidly as possible, her eyes darted over the parts of the room she could see. The tv flashed silent images of a food programme.
The apartment door was closed. Locked? The chain hung down. Unlocked? Fear tempted her to make a run for it, but...
The tv showed people eating, dinner jackets and bowties or pearls and designer gowns laughing and chatting at a vast polished table.
The window, closed.
Lips were licked, food forked in between them, jaws moved up and down. Tracey's eyes became transfixed on the silent screen, on the faces, on the mouths.

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