I had consecrated my life to His Work; and I took the primrose path. Suddenly he came to a stop, his mouth agape. He died in the war. The only part of his otherwise-interesting countenance, to which one could decidedly object, was the mouth; a feature that, more than any other, is conceived to betray the animal propensities of the possessor. My father died a year ago, by the way. Don’t favour your father much, either, if it comes to that. You see, we travelled second class, and we are in the least known quarter of Paris. My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague. “I don’t believe there is one.
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