The Night of the Long Knives by Fritz Leiber

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_Murder most foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange and unnatural._ -- Hamlet

When I woke the light was almost full amber and I could feel no flesh against mine, only the blanket under me. I very slowly rolled over and there she was, sitting on the corner of the blanket not two feet from me, combing her long black hair with a big, wide-toothed comb she'd screwed into the leather-and-metal cap over her wrist stump.

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