She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. “How did you become a vampire, then?” He asked. Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent. Above her head was an aura of white fire. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves.
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