The room,
although it never lost its familiarity, grew uncouthly strange;
shapes grey and dim seemed to move beneath the windows, humping
their backs, spinning out into long limbs, hands and legs and
gigantic fingers. The deadest hour of the night was come; the
outside world seemed to press upon the house, the whole world cold,
thick, damp, lifeless, like an animal slain and falling with its
full weight, crushing everything beneath it. Perhaps she slept--she
did not know. Martin seemed to be with her, and against them was
Aunt Anne, her back against the door, her hands spread, refusing to
let them pass. The room joined in the struggle, the floor slipped
beneath their tread, the curtain swayed forward and caught them in
its folds, the lamp flickered and flickered and flickered . . .
She was awake suddenly, quite acutely aware of danger. She rubbed
her eyes, turned, and in the dim shadow saw her aunt sitting up in
bed, her body drawn up to its intensest height, her hands pressing
down, flat upon the bed. Her eyes stared as though they would break
down all boundaries, but her lips trembled like the lips of a little
child.
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