She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. There was none. Stanley changed his key. He was snoring stupidly. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. When it came time to eat once again, she hid out on the beach, a remote fastness beyond the city walls, a swampy morass that everyone avoided. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially.
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