Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. “Sold again,” she remarked. He shall expiate his offences on the gibbet. She had even tried a needle and a catheter on a victim once, but had found that the process was so frustrating and slow that she barely gained any sustenance and had done the worst thing imaginable: wasted a kill. But send me word.
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