“If I am to turn you into a vampire, she cannot know. She distinctly shivered as he forced her to look at him. Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. That register would be easy to get at; comforting thought. She had a vision of policemen, reproving magistrates, a crowded court, public disgrace. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. “You are Mademoiselle Pellissier?” he asked, without rising to his feet. But she had found it very difficult.
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