Kneebone, are these your French noblemen?" "Don't upbraid me!" rejoined the woollen-draper. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Diane seemed more interested in the prestige of her violin skills than in the more sordid subject of her vampirism. “Are you speaking to me?” she asked calmly.
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