He raised the sash with stealthy caution,
wondering at his own stealthiness. And he was oddly glad when the window
rose without a squeak. He leaned out and looked up and down the street.
It was unchanged. Across the way a door flung open, a child darted out
with shrill laughter and dodged about the corner of the house, escaping
after some mischief.
After that the silence again, except that before long a murmur began on
the veranda beneath him where the half-dozen obscure figures had been
sitting when he entered. Why should they be mumbling to themselves? He
thought he could distinguish the voice of the widow Rickson among the
rest, but he shrugged that idle thought away and turned back into his
room. He sat down on the side of the bed and pulled off his boots, but
the minute they were off he was ill at ease. There was something
oppressive about the atmosphere of this rickety old hotel. What sort of a
world was this he had entered, with its whispers, its cold glances?
He cast himself back on his bed, determined to be at ease. Nevertheless,
his heart kept bumping absurdly. Now, Terry began to grow angry.
Pages:
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158