My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. She was trembling a little. Some of your sex, I mean. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. What was the wench at? Yet he could not maintain this stand off forever. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. . He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. He allowed his irons and clothes to be taken off without resistance. CHAPTER XIV Ruth lost the point entirely. At once there came an answering knock.
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