ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. “Well, I don’t feel like standing it. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. From your pocket there. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. She had a few acquaintances, English gentlemen, but she lived with her sister—was a lady. Melusine cursed herself for his injury. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. “If I am to turn you into a vampire, she cannot know. Shall we sit outside and drink a petit verre of something to give us an appetite while dinner is being prepared?” “Certainly not,” she answered. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so.
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