Probably a sick man's whim. I'll call it my wedding gift. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. And it's a maxim of universal application: or, at least, of universal practice. The significance of the kiss was still obscure to her, though she had frequently encountered the word and act in the Old and New Testaments and latterly in novels. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. Diane seemed more interested in the prestige of her violin skills than in the more sordid subject of her vampirism. “John, don’t!” she cried.
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