He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. But indeed that is not at all a good description of her attitude. However, I daresay that we shall come across one another before long. My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague.
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