Suddenly she understood. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. It fell with a clatter to the floor. "If I could only make you realize what you have done," he said, lamely. ‘Oh, I do love a flatterer. I warned her not to say a word, for it would mean the death of everyone in the Palazzo, including you. My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. His gaze remained steady on the old dame’s face, as he thought about it. G. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing.
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