“It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. “Why just take her limbs? Why not poison her, like me?” “Because, if you remember, she turned me into a vampire. ” He looked at her gravely. Their future would be glorious; he saw it in their eyes; he saw it in the beauty of their young heads. ‘Damnation!’ Confused, he released her, and in an instant she had darted away and was running down the garden. Our land brings us in nothing. Even the love of a mother does not sway him.
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