It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. “Why just take her limbs? Why not poison her, like me?” “Because, if you remember, she turned me into a vampire. ’ You used to declare that you hated the name. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination.
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