" "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. His gaze dropped to the black garment that covered her. Diane seemed more interested in the prestige of her violin skills than in the more sordid subject of her vampirism.
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