The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. This path, bordered on each side by high privet hedges of the most beautiful green, soon brought them to a stile. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. " With no little effort—for the right words had a way of tumbling back out of reach—he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. “How did you become a vampire, then?” He asked.
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