‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy. Cautiously stepping outside, he looked up towards the terrace. My wife—killed me. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. He warned her that it drove most men mad and that the process for choosing another to become a vampire was lengthy and protracted with good reason. ‘I want a word with you, my lad. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. I didn’t see everything last time. She has already given birth, thanks to your generosity. However, I'd rather have a blow from the daughter than the mother. Part of her felt like laughing insanely at how badly she had been duped. “You see, it comes after all,” she continued, “from certain original convictions which have become my religion.
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