You cannot let her go. You cannot keep her locked up for long, she’ll find a way to harm you. You cannot risk to have her seduce the wardens, the ma...istrate, or even the judge — she is a good-looking woman, after all, even now, lying naked on a heap of straw, cold and hungry, dirty and bruised, chained to the dungeon wall. You cannot put her to death, without proof of her guilt. You cannot have proof without her confession. Only pain will make her confess, only pain will make her name the other. Main kiya dekhta hoon kay mery sister so rahi hay gheri neend or us ki qameez is terha ho rah ithi jesay sotay main ooper charh gai ho.jis ki wajha sy us kay aik mamma taqreeban aadha bahar aaraha tha or us ka brown nipple buhhhut wazeh deekh raha tha.main kafi der is nazaray ko dekh ta raha ,mujh ko malom tha kay woh soi nahi hay balkay jaan boojh ker esa ker rhi hay,is waqt sub kuch meray haath main tha mager main abhi is khail ko or aagay berhana chahta tha.phir main uth ker us kay kamray. "My dad's a master sergeant in the Corps. I've shot M-4s and AR-15s a lot." "Ok," I said, handing her the gun. "Show me. Clear the weapon." She dropped out the mag, pulled the charging handle which ejected the round in the chamber. "Ok, I guess you do know what you're doing. Here." I handed her two full 30-round mags. "Watch the stairs. We're going out the roof here." She slapped in a mag and put the other in her blouse. She chambered a round. "Rock and roll!" she said with gusto. She fired a. I should explain that we live in a small Sussex ex-farmhouse, with outhouses, on the outskirts of town, left to me by an uncle some years ago. The place is surrounded by council houses, the nearest 100 yards away on the other side of a main road so noise no object. An old armchair fell to pieces as we moved it displacing a number of mice. A solid wooden bench and a table to match we left in the milking stall, but the bathtub the mangle and the rotting horse collar found themselves in the “for.