Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. There was, in fact, only one clear thought in his fevered brain: he had reached the hotel without falling down. A pair of long-lashed blue eyes studied them both as she slowly brought her hands down to rest by her sides. At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true. 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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