"This tongue looks remarkably nice," he added, slicing off an immense wedge, "excuse me—ho! ho!" "You make yourself at home, I perceive," observed Kneebone, with a look of ineffable disgust. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. "Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I can bring myself to part with him, you shall have him without another word. Diane seemed more interested in the prestige of her violin skills than in the more sordid subject of her vampirism.
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