A Murderer Was A Worthy Companion.

We Are All Subject To The Fates. But We Must Act As If We Are Not, Or Die Of Despair.

On A Cold, Fretful Afternoon In Early October, 1872, A Hansom Cab Drew Up Outside The Offices Of Lockhart And Selby, Shipping Agents, In The Financial Heart Of London, And A Young Girl Got Out And Paid The Driver. She Was A Person Of Sixteen Or So--alone, And Uncommonly Pretty. She Was Slender And Pale, And Dressed In Mourning, With A Black Bonnet Under Which She Tucked Back A Straying Twist Of Blond Hair That The Wind Had Teased Loose. She Had Unusually Dark Brown Eyes For One So Fair. Her Name Was Sally Lockhart; And Within Fifteen Minutes, She Was Going To Kill A Man.

Then She Was Pressing Her Little Proud Broken Self Against His Face, As Close As She Could Get, And Then They Died.

Being A Practiced Liar Doesn't Mean You Have A Powerful Imagination. Many Good Liars Have No Imagination At All; It's That Which Gives Their Lies Such Wide-eyed Conviction.

...because Where We Are Is Always The Most Important Place.