Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. “If I am to turn you into a vampire, she cannot know. But I'll never part with your irons.
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