Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. They were familiar but more massive. Russell trouble, a good lot of trouble.
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