Diane seemed more interested in the prestige of her violin skills than in the more sordid subject of her vampirism. Denis. I’d ruin the things if I so much as touched one. “My dear Vee!” Her voice became very low. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue.
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