“How did you become a vampire, then?” He asked. On the groundfloor the shutters were closed, or, to speak more correctly, altogether nailed up, and presented a very singular appearance, being patched all over with the soles of old shoes, rusty hobnails, and bits of iron hoops, the ingenious device of the former occupant of the apartment, Paul Groves, the cobbler, to whom we have before alluded. “It means that I have had enough of this slavery,” she declared. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. Part of her felt like laughing insanely at how badly she had been duped. Her eyes where glassy and shining. Heaven knows why! They don’t marry most of us off now until high up in the twenties.
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