Martin was the only person to directly address Lucy again, trying to reassure her that “real vampires melt in direct sunlight. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. ” So that was it! “He came and talked to me. What more was to be done? Frith’s investigations had proved fruitful, and the man was now keeping an eye on Valade. Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. . . “Our interest lies in heading them off.
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