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    Summary

    “Robberies,” Phryne said, “and shoot-outs. And murders. Murders, Jack. Awful ones, probably. With terribly creative weapons. Happening under our very noses. Right now, even.”

    “Mmm,” Jack agreed. “No rest for the wicked.”

    Phryne sniffled again, defeated. “But I don’t feel well,” she said, admitting it aloud at last.

    in which Phryne is laid low by a rotten cold, but perhaps it's not all bad, if Jack is there to wait on her and bring her tea and soup

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