white muscle and fangs—was terrifying: an egule in the flesh. The legs,
extended, were as long as a man’s. The stomach was empty. The skin lay
as it had come off the body, inside up. How strange it would have been to
see it there—so recently alive with unimaginable fury—now as flat and
lifeless as a shroud, being folded first in half along the spine, then in
quarters, eighths, and sixteenths, like the carpet it had now become. All
these disparate parts, laid out neatly at sunset on the bloodstained road,
were as hard to relate to a tiger as a crashed plane is to flight.
ron
(Ron)
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