\" He leaned at a steeper pitch. ‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. The Jacobite. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. It isn’t. “Was that before or after you became a vampire?” Michelle questioned her casually, as if it were an interview. Some doting parent had taught him well. I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other. It is your own choice, isn’t it?” She nodded. A hollow feeling opened up inside her, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. “Had the pleasure of dining with you at the ‘Ambassador’s’ one night, before the show, you know—last September I think it was.
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