"Instantly, Hobson," returned Lady Trafford; "as soon as the carriage can be brought round. CHAPTER XIV. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. I was certain of it. She had even tried a needle and a catheter on a victim once, but had found that the process was so frustrating and slow that she barely gained any sustenance and had done the worst thing imaginable: wasted a kill.
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