\" Lucy said as they ascended the steps. But calmer thoughts quickly succeeded. Just as I might have killed another, if he had come out. She had eaten them. ‘You don’t mean to say she’s here?’ ‘Was,’ Gerald corrected. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter’s jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. And she was as shrewd as they come.
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