She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother. People were not slaves to their gods as they are now, oppressed and unhappy, chained to their mortality and suffering so that they may one day enter an imaginary Heaven. “That cannot happen!” She replied, feeling her world start to disintegrate underneath her feet. ’ ‘Not until you release that dagger. She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. Michelle repeated herself brashly, “A vampire, silly. But then—Oh! Madam, there are moments—moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence—in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue. You take them.
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