Everything you did, placed so discordantly, so at the wrong time, or the wrong place, seemed if it came to be there solely to make me completely fall for you. Like a soul with no social stature, -- but who’s heart is as good as Pip at the forge, -- sits down to a meal given by those with etiquette, and burps in satisfaction, totally unconscious of the discourse of his or her actions. You so happily let even the most obvious foibles leave your lips, making me give you countenance with a hidden smile. Marks on your neck that I came to believe must come the night before from “your Man.” And so fresh at it I had to think about being embarrassed. Instead I gave credence to the possibility that you might be the one example of the heart of a child in the body of a woman, and I wished to have you. I wished as many a man does to take hold the code of the vampire and suck from you the very marrow of youth, to replenish this burnt dry soul. I wished it, but did not act on it, for there is good reason to fear that part of us who reaches for the flame, with no hinderence, even when the parent warns.