His legs were dreadfully swelled; his hands bruised; and his fetters occasioned him intolerable pain. During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. “That’s not working so well for you, is it?” She looked at him sheepishly, bringing a Kleenex out of her pocket to wipe away the excess. What passed between them I cannot think—I dare not. My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague. These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess.
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