” “Why not?” She turned on him. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. ‘You cannot be André Valade if you tell them I am one of this family. We vampires have awesome powers of regeneration, given adequate donors. The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain. Then it was the woman herself who was changed. ‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you.
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