‘Adieu, imbecile,’ she threw at him gleefully. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. They tracked the fugitive to the Mint; but, like hounds at fault, they here lost all scent of their prey. The area was sparsely populated. Why not kill her here, and leave silently, the way he must have come? Could it be that he had not the intention to kill her? En tout cas, it gave her a chance. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. “There’s no one here except me.
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