He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. I would be chased by every curious party on this planet, by vampireseekers, by witch-hunters, by researchers, you name it. Hurry to me, I entreat you. —D'ye hear?" Still the widow remained silent. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. Snatching-up his pistols, he rushed to the door, but to his horror found it fastened. As soon as he had read it, he let it fall from his grasp. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Let us part in peace. “You are so sweet, Lucy.
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