‘You make me talk, you make me talk. Which are you—Valade or Charvill? Or, no, let me guess. But she could see that Diane watched her more closely now, and in a cat-like way. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. Lovecraft and Edgar Allan Poe. He stood up and she ushered him out of the small room. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. You have actually given up a dinner-party to dine alone with me.
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