She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. But there was nothing in her bearing that a passer-by would have noted, to tell of the excitement that possessed her. Chapter XVI THE DISCOMFITURE OF SIR JOHN Sir John looked from one to the other of the two sisters. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. You've caught the colour and the life. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly.
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