The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. Lucilla broke across Melusine’s thoughts. ‘And that object confirms me in the belief that it is not I who will shortly meet my maker. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right.
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