But there is need for the proof that I am me, and that is what I look for. She had never heard anything so unholy. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. Somewhere, where we can talk without interruption. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. . . “I’m d——d if I understand this,” he said thoughtfully. The whole affair interested him deeply.
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