From the centre of the ceiling hung a replica of the temple lamp in the Taj Mahal. I will go with you. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. He had always warned her explicitly about turning others into vampires. Her lips were dry and cracked. . Slowly, he drew back his head and looked into her face. It ought never to have begun. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success.
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