She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him.
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