Neither did his interest,—which was by no means inconsiderable,—nor his general popularity, procure him the preferment he desired. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. And what's more, I promise to abide by his decision. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. “Delicious!” she murmured.
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