She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. And it’s no good pretending there is one when there isn’t. From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon. Ann Veronica stared at his foolish, propitiatory smile, his hungry gaze, through one moment of amazement, then stepped aside and went on her way with a quickened step. ‘She gave me four separate identities for herself, you must know, including Prudence, before I managed to get at her real name. ’ The lady uttered a scornful sound. In some instances she tantalizes the victim for years and mocks him in the end. Then suddenly, in front of all those windows, he folded her in his arms and pressed her to him, and kissed her unresisting face. No— no, it must never be.
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