"I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill. “We have,” he said, “to be the utmost friends. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague.
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