Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. Give me your staff. ‘Bête!’ Gerald caught her hand as she pulled it back to deliver another blow. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. ‘And it may interest you to know, mademoiselle, that the first thing Gerald must needs do on reaching town is to rush off to that convent of yours to make sure you were safe. He seemed to be about to move toward her. You are—or rather you were——” he corrected himself with an unpleasant little laugh, “Miss Pellissier, eh?” A little sensation followed upon his words. “You could tell me but you’d have to kill me?” He asked with a sardonic grin on his face. Ludicrously loud sounds streamed from the array of speakers. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. Very well. “You’re wanted for questioning, miss. ” “You what?” she repeated incredulously.
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