With a sense of being perfectly alone, walled round by the gathering
dusk, Fanny made a deep inroad upon her sandwiches and cake, finishing
with the apple, and began to roll up what remained in case of further
need, should no one come to fetch her.
She reflected that her torch would not last her long and that she ought
to put it and light her head and tail lamps instead, but, drowsy with
pleasure in her lonely dinner, she sat on, prolonging the last moments
before she must uncurl her feet and climb down on to the ground. The
torch slipped from her knee on to a lower fold of the rug, lighting only
the corner of a packet in which she had rolled the cake.
Suddenly, while she watched it, the gleam of the corner disappeared. She
stared at the spot intensely, and saw a hand, a shade lighter than the
darkness, travel across the surface of the rug, cover with its fingers
the second parcel and draw it backwards into what had now become dense
night. Her skin stirred as though a million antennae were alive upon it;
she could not breathe lest any movement should fling the unknown upon
her; her eyes were glued to the third packet, and, in a moment, the hand
advanced again. With horror she saw it creep along the rug, a small
brown, fibrous hand, worn with work. The third packet was eclipsed by
the fingers and receded as the others had done, but as it reached the
edge of the rug, overflowing horror galvanised her into movement, and
catching the corners of the rug she threw it violently after the package
and over the hand, at the same moment jumping from her seat and on to
the footboard, to grope wildly for the switch.
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