“Oh, you know,” she said. She was going through with that, anyhow. But out of a belated regard for her father she wrote the surname of some one else. And pouring the contents of a small powderflask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture. Nowadays, from the looks of it, people were lining up to become vampires. He meditated, and began a new paragraph. "Where is he, then?" demanded the other, hastily. Celeste introduced him to me—oh, how Celeste hated me! She must have known. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden.
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