A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. Martin was the only person to directly address Lucy again, trying to reassure her that “real vampires melt in direct sunlight. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. Her blood spurted into his mouth and he drank. “Not possible. In mid-bite, she heard a car door slam that was recognizable. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. Love stories! It was of negligible importance that these books were bound in paper; Romance lay unalterably within. For fully five minutes he lay quite motionless. “This is all rot!” he declared angrily. You see, I—I am a woman worshipper.
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