"He is," returned Quilt, significantly. “I truly am a vampire, John. Smith obeyed. We Spurlocks take our medicine, standing. She came quickly into the little parlour, which now seemed inordinately crowded, and coming up to Melusine, seized her hands in a warm clasp. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Gosse would have killed me, and perhaps in the fight I might kill him. Either we go forth together, or they shall bury me. And I, I am happy to say, am in the delightful position of being in the know. ‘It is not your affair.
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