Lucy looked at her with a small measure of pity. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. "What did the old fellow judge from, eh, Joan?" asked he. The man or woman who did something for nothing always excited his suspicions; they were playing some kind of a game. I ought to be able to think things out. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. "I never had a pet.
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