He was damned if he knew what to do. Good riddance. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively. Diane seemed more interested in the prestige of her violin skills than in the more sordid subject of her vampirism. “Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out a Daily Telegraph. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded.
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