She still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace, said "Come to me, Arthur. Leave these others and come to me. My arms are hungry for you. Come, and we can rest together. Come, my husband, come!"
There was something diabolically sweet in her tones, something of the tingling of glass when struck-which rang through the brains even of us who heard the words addressed to another.
– Bram Stoker