The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. “Politics!” Ennison answered grimly. It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly. But the possible attitude of her father she had still to face. My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague. Wood, at Dollis Hill —" "Let me have one," said a carpenter, who was passing by at the moment,—"Mr.
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