What is it about Amanda Knox that leaves us so unsettled? Is it her outré sexuality, catalogued so faithfully by the media ever since, on November 6, 2007, she found herself implicated in the murder of her flatmate, Meredith Kercher? Was it the cartwheels and the splits that she apparently performed in a Perugia police station while awaiting police questioning? Perhaps, it’s no more complicated than her nickname: “Foxy Knoxy”, redolent of enigmatic, Mona Lisa-like insouciance in the face of a tawdry, sordid, pitiful sex murder.
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