She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. Leonardo had taught her pretty well everything she could have need to know, when they had talked long at his bedside. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. You were dying and your baby along with you. He'd have some fun with that Chinaman before the morning was out. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself.
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