Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. His hand shook so violently that he dropped the handkerchief; and he let it lie on the floor because he dared not stoop. “I truly am a vampire, John. .
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