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Blackwood, Algernon, 1869-1951

"The Empty House and Other Ghost Stories"

Most of this, of course, only sketched itself to
my eye in the uncertain light of the flickering matches, and when I said
I had seen enough, and the matches went out, we were at once enveloped
in an atmosphere as densely black as anything that I have ever known.
And the silence equalled the darkness.
We made ourselves comfortable and talked in low voices. The rugs, which
were very large, covered our legs; and our shoulders sank into a really
luxurious bed of softness. Yet neither of us apparently felt sleepy. I
certainly didn't, and Shorthouse, dropping his customary brevity that
fell little short of gruffness, plunged into an easy run of talking
that took the form after a time of personal reminiscences. This rapidly
became a vivid narration of adventure and travel in far countries, and
at any other time I should have allowed myself to become completely
absorbed in what he told. But, unfortunately, I was never able for a
single instant to forget the real purpose of our enterprise, and
consequently I felt all my senses more keenly on the alert than usual,
and my attention accordingly more or less distracted.


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