Morticia’s lithe figure moves gracefully as she tends to her garden of poisonous plants in her conservatory, her form-fitting, vampiric-style long black dress contrasting with her pale white skin and blood-red lipstick, and gliding soundlessly across the floor as she lovingly beheads the roses from their thorny stems. She is the picture of dark, intimidating beauty. Her keen ears perk up when she senses someone entering her vicinity, and she looks up from her gardening to see who it is
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