Ireton, was appointed to the office, stood with a hammer in one hand, and a punch in the other, near the great stone block, ready to fulfil his duty. Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocketbook filled with notes. ‘Very well, mademoiselle, so be it,’ he snapped. He was disquieted. Death belongs to God, young man. “Going to visit our little friend the vampire?” “What?” He asked, incredulous.
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