It wasn’t. Gentlemen,—Mr. Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. She fled. Two separate search parties were formed to hike the areas near the Greene River as a panic spread over the town of Princeton Hills. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men.
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