Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. But she certainly remembered that when she was a little girl he sometimes wore tennis flannels, and also rode a bicycle very dexterously in through the gates to the front door. As Melusine approached the door, she saw Kimble speed up. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. He was an old, skilled vampire. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely.
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