Would you die for a die?

After the party

I had killed my hostess carefully: the hooks of the earrings had been dipped in Batrachotoxin, the poison from the skin of a tiny specimen of South America frog, the Phyllobates terribilis. The toxicity of it took mere minutes to take action, forcing my lady into a reckless chocking fit. The damsel, in all her grace and fervour, could not withstand the cruelty of the substance.

The plan had succeeded almost effortlessly. Almost. I recalled the touch of her hand, her perfect complexion. No. The bitch is dead.
I resumed my post by the hearth, I was hit by a furious dissatisfaction. Almost unconsciously, I hastened to make use of the dice one more time before the clocks struck midnight.

By 11:55 tonight, I had ensured little, master Henry, sleeping soundly in the nursery of house No.5, should never wake again. I must admit, the purity and defencelessness of the child- so unknowing of his fate whilst he dreamt- made me dabble. I still have a heart, after all, only it beats slightly differently to most.
But I still did it.
After all, that vulgar Celestine, had been innocent too, once. I should never have let him near her.
The boy's body has not yet been found by his buxom nurse. I will know it has been discovered when I hear the new howls and cries across the street.

Two missions in one night. I should be overjoyed. So why, instead, do I only feel a melancholy urge for just one more? They'll never catch me alive anyway...