From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. It did not shock her; it amazed her, interested her beyond measure. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had. Perhaps her odd beauty—and that too was natural—stirred these thoughts into being. ’ She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. Nor was this impression removed as he stole a glance at Mrs. ” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided.
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