You must forgive the poet’s license I take. . . He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. He then made a sort of running noose, passed it over her body, and taking firmly hold of the bars, prepared to guide her descent. She did not care that vampire children are abominations. The old lady’s face was stiff with anger. Perhaps she did love research for its own sake, she was certainly gifted enough. ’ You mean you hope you do, thought Gerald cynically.
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