On the sixth day of Wicked Little Secrets, my true love gave to me . . .
Six Pipes of Opium!
“Ah.” The oriental lady nodded and smiled. She opened the door a bit
more, letting out a big waft of that warm, sweet scent. “You look so tired,”
the lady said. “Come rest. Opium very good. It make you forget.”
Raw opium! The substance so vilified by the
proper yet extolled by the artists. Curious, Vivienne strained her eyes to see
inside. Within, gold and red fabric fell in swags from the ceiling like a
Turkish caravan tent. A well-dressed gentleman lay curled up on a low bed that
was draped with purple and yellow sheets. In his mouth, he held a long stick
that resembled a flute.
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