She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. “Why just take her limbs? Why not poison her, like me?” “Because, if you remember, she turned me into a vampire. Gerald’s chest tightened.
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