"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. H’m. Another long interval elapsed. You are different, Lucia, undamaged even after what you have been through, still pure of heart. Occasionally he revealed tidbits about his past after a good kill. “Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire. She could not run, her limbs were frozen. She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. Or perhaps my father once. It had been her home for hundreds of years.
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