They got to go home and eat Campbell’s Chicken Soup. She was making it up. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. It's a mighty quare 'un, though. He had always warned her explicitly about turning others into vampires. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. “Why?” “I still love you. . ’ *** It must have been fate, Gerald decided, near an hour later, staring intently at the closed French windows on the raised alcove that led out to the terrace. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray.
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