She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. "That man should have been an Italian bravo," murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: "he has neither fear nor compunction. “I’m a vampire. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. Whenever ecstasy— any kind of ecstasy—filled her heart to bursting, these physical expressions eased the pressure. But her great-aunt was nodding, as if this was what she had expected. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert.
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