She had no intention whatsoever of spending her life in a convent, but that was not his affair. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. ‘It weren’t my wish, miss, I can tell you that. Whatever she does is minimized. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home.
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