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His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague. To hand the key back in silence was like offering a lie. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. I consented. Indeed, he told me nothing at all. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. You remember that you saw us at the Savoy a few evenings ago?” “Yes.

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