Beethoven; he’s the best of them. He was mad. She drew in a deep breath of the sweet mountain air. “May I be allowed to say,” he declared, “that I came here with the same intention. From the sounds of it, he was better off dead. ’ The core of hurt rose up, tearing at her insides. It was a betrayal of God and her former family, but all in all was much easier. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. "Ay, indeed! And who may that be?" inquired his wife. “Why?” he asked, suavely. “I truly am a vampire, John.
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