She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. She had even tried a needle and a catheter on a victim once, but had found that the process was so frustrating and slow that she barely gained any sustenance and had done the worst thing imaginable: wasted a kill. During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed. When he beheld Jack he uttered a deep groan. “She’s all right. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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