She had killed the McCloskeys after they had witnessed her making a kill. But never mind that. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. How you dress when you're loafing will be no concern of mine; but fresh twill or Shantung, when you dine with me, collar and tie. “I found not one but two photos when I researched the death of the McCloskeys. It’s my choice, Lucy.
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