Not to go to her is wickeder than if I had run away with my friend's wife. She had other boyfriends and hung out at Foster’s only bar most of the time. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. My only excuse is that I missed my way here, and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men.
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