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You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. She looked down at him and saw that the sunlight was gleaming from his cheeks, and that all over his cheeks was a fine golden down of delicate hairs. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. The chief scene of these disgusting orgies,—the cellar, just referred to,—was a large low-roofed vault, about four feet below the level of the street, perfectly dark, unless when illumined by a roaring fire, and candles stuck in pyramidal lumps of clay, with a range of butts and barrels at one end, and benches and tables at the other, where the prisoners, debtors, and malefactors male and female, assembled as long as their money lasted, and consumed the time in drinking, smoking, and gaming with cards and dice. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. And then! a garment that was conceivably a secondary skirt. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. “I truly am a vampire, John. I was—I was a corespondent.
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