“Don’t think so,” Drummond answered. “If I am to turn you into a vampire, she cannot know. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. I told him Valade had tried to borrow money off me and asked if he could vouch for the fellow.
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