Though Lucy refused to personally implicate her, Mr. F. Mrs. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. She shuddered. “Well, well, Martin. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. She had always wondered when they would start being able to trace her kills, with their expanding systems of criminal databases and computers, and now it was starting to happen.
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