"I know not—and care not," replied Jack. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. “It was great, Shari!” She replied the stars still in her eyes. It was clear that he meant to kiss her before she exited the car. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. She wore a black satin dress, a little shiny at the seams, a purposeless bow of white tulle at the back of her neck, and a huge chatelaine. “I had the pleasure of—er—meeting you more than once, I believe.
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