She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. " "It matters not what I think," replied Wild. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. "And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's his outlandish name?" "Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. “She doesn’t know. "My father!" she whispered. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. He was followed with equal celerity by Terence and the widow.
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