Think of those days in Paris. Let us pass, Sir. ‘Merci,’ Melusine said, and smiled. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. She felt the whack from about six feet away, kitty corner. Diane seemed more interested in the prestige of her violin skills than in the more sordid subject of her vampirism.
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