His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. I would be chased by every curious party on this planet, by vampireseekers, by witch-hunters, by researchers, you name it. You know I call that positively wicked. “Can’t you SEE how things are?” she said. Maggot. She is a stranger to you. " "Sir Rowland Trenchard!" echoed Jack, in amazement.
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