He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “I’m still new to them. “Was that before or after you became a vampire?” Michelle questioned her casually, as if it were an interview. I could not have spoken to her. You dear, dear girl.
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