Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. She has been a dear. He had always warned her explicitly about turning others into vampires. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. I want you to think of me just as if I was a man, and quite outside marriage altogether. Her evident terror and distress reinforced the tale he told. The ruse succeeded almost beyond his expectation. Never was heard such a bawling as these unfortunate wights kept up.
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