Bram Stoker

The ap­proach of sun­set was so very beau­ti­ful, so grand in its masses of splen­didly-col­oured clouds, that there was quite an as­semblage on the walk along the cliff in the old church­yard to en­joy the beauty.

, what a wealth of sor­row in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor Lucy!

But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things

for I feared to see those weird sis­ters.

As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.

What I saw was the Count’s head com­ing out from the win­dow. I did not

I was not alone. The room was the same, un­changed in any way since I came into it; I could see along the floor, in the bril­liant moon­light, my own foot­step

Why can’t they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want her, and save all this trouble?

For life be, after all, only a waitin’ for somethin’ else than what we’re doin’; and death be all that we can rightly de­pend on.

Look! look!” he cried sud­denly. “There’s some­thing in that wind and in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It’s in the air; I feel it comin’