"Your faults were the faults of circumstances. But you belong to me—and I want you. “We can be alone?” She inquired. They’re in grad school and they both live in New York. ‘That’s not much comfort. She quickened her pace, and so did he, talking at her slightly averted ear. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. The great untrodden world was before her still, into which no one can pass alone. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. In this way, they reached Holborn Bridge. ” “If you’re a vampire, how can you run around in the daytime?” “There are many myths about us.
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