222

The Journals of Barnabas Collins

Why do I care so little about feeding upon the women here than in my own time?  I am still unconvinced that any of this is real, however, the move to human blood has bolstered my spirits.

After feeding (and I must be more discreet), I invented yet another plan to be near Miss Evans.  Her father — again, eerily identical to Andres Dupres in form, if not bearing — is a painter, and thinking quick as boiled asparagus, I asked him to paint a portrait of me.  What will I do with it?  Shave into it? A pointless vanity, but a necessary fiction to keep her near me.

What of my feelings for Miss Winters?  All the more confounding.

Construction continues apace.  Young Loomis has backslid, and I once again must resort to the “old boarding school breaking.”

 

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