" It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. The wine was sweetened with cinnamon and cloves and rare edible flowers, which her father had instructed her not to drink excessively of. “Ugh!” she said. ” He looked at her with white, set face. . ” “Is she the one who made you into a vampire?” “Yes. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly. “You will be so late. ” “And mine,” murmured his companion, with the smile still lingering upon his lips. This she would not endure. I do not think you quite understand my ideals or what is becoming as between father and daughter.
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