He sat up in his chair again, the colour came back to his cheeks. Would there be enough in the young man's envelope to pay the doctor and the hotel bill—and in the event of his death, enough to ship the body home? So all things pointed to the happy circumstance of setting this young fool upon his feet again, of seeing him hence upon his journey. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. Anna watched her from the windows, watched the carriage jolt away along the cobbled street and disappear.
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