He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. “If I am to turn you into a vampire, she cannot know. "Are you hurt, Thames?" asked Jack, anxiously. Now I do. She gave up as he finished, spending himself in her mouth. Arrived at Paddington, he struck across Marylebone Fields,—for as yet the New Road was undreamed of,—and never moderated his speed until he reached the city. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. She had agonized over it for weeks. “Never mind, old chap,” he declared.
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