I've read all the previous Mary Russell novels, but I just couldn't induce myself to finish this one; ennui was overpowering. To my mind, the quality of both the writing and the plotting has deteriorated with each new book. Please... not another crazy religion. No more endless boring discourse on Hebraic minutiae. Annoyingly, Mycroft Holmes is all over the place in this one, not as a genuine character but basically as a shortcut for the author to provide things for Sherlock and Mary. By making things oh so easy for them, drama is garrotted. The narrator does a creditable job on the English characters, but tortures French accents to death. Maybe the ending made the beginning worthwhile, but I didn't stick around to find out.
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