In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. You don’t want to miss the sport. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. He was so seldom wrong. Brute! Fool! To have come to her on such an errand. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague. . “She must go her own way.
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