Mr. Gerald frowned. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. "Hear the letter," said Ireton, breaking the seal. "When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm.
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