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The Journals of Barnabas Collins

Amidst much self-congratulation at my ingenuity in sending Doctor Woodard off with a prestidigitized sample of blood that was decidedly not that of Young Loomis, I was struck with other feelings just as potent.  I have excelled at making sport of the world in which I’ve found myself, yet I cannot make sport of the fact that I am acting wickedly within it.  Whether it is an illusion or not, my own actions are ones with which I am increasingly uneasy.  Yes, it is an illusion created by Angelique, Barnabas, so drink up.  Even if it is, should I not be a model of higher resolve and character?  Am I the new face of evil so often fought in the events of late 1795?

When I find myself caring about that too much, I have found it distressingly easy to activate vast reserves of apathy, that most evil of mental…

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