“You haven’t told a lot of people in school that I’m a vampire, have you?” Lucy asked Michelle in earnest. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. The tropical dawn is swift. He drew a little breath and stepped back. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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