The service had not proceeded far, when she was greatly disturbed by the entrance of a person who placed himself opposite her, and sought to attract her attention by a number of little arts, surveying her, as he did so, with a very impudent and offensive stare. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. He warned her that it drove most men mad and that the process for choosing another to become a vampire was lengthy and protracted with good reason. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. It was not possible. Only I wish—I wish to-day I was a thousand times, ten thousand times more beautiful.
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