By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen. Ann Veronica watched her and wondered about her. ‘Very clever, Mademoiselle Melusine. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. But that possibility had been anticipated. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard.
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