'—'No fear o' that,' thought I. She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague.
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