“The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. “I’m a vampire. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. By a sort of instinct. “Are these ordinary sapphires?” she said. In the first place, it will be damnably dull. In these waters the shell has about given out. I want to put myself into your hands. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. “Have you dropped from the skies?” Sydney asked wonderingly. And, come what will, I'll balk him of the satisfaction of hanging me.
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