Martin was the only person to directly address Lucy again, trying to reassure her that “real vampires melt in direct sunlight. They reached Wimbledon, and Ramage whipped out to hand Miss Stanley to the platform as though she had been a duchess, and she descended as though such attentions from middle-aged, but still gallant, merchants were a matter of course. “But it makes me feel inhuman,” he added. And now I find, when it is too late, that I might have deserved you—that I am as well born as Thames Darrell. Fifty pupils. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four.
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