Then her fingers moved. My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. ‘I do not know. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. Prudence shook her head. The doctor drew out the contents hopefully. “Why?” “I still love you.
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