"In an old house . . . it's as though the old wood were alive."
"And the furniture."
"What can have been the matter with Mary?"
"Can she . . . have seen anything?"
"No."
"No, no."
"She wanted to fetch something. . . . She fainted. . . . She's very ill, I believe, very weak."
"Addie says that she's not so very ill."
"Listen!"
"Could it really be . . . the old man?"
"And, if it were the old man . . . what then?" said Adeletje. "I . . . I shall remain in the house. I shall die, here, I think, at Uncle and Aunt's."
"Oh, do hush, Adeletje!" said Gerdy, limply, nestling in her sister's arms.
"I'm not afraid of dying."
"Oh, Adeletje, do hush, do hush! You mustn't talk of dying."
"Listen! I hear it again!"
"But now it's trailing away."
"Like a draught sucking in the air."
"Yes," said Adeletje, "I expect it's the old man."
"Why should it be he?"
"He can't tear himself away from the house."
"He was always implacable . . ."
"To poor Aunt Constance."
"The old woman was different."
"Yes, she was different."
"No, it's the draught, it's only the draught. . . . And the house, creaking."
"It's nothing."
"It's nothing."
"But perhaps we imagine . . . because we hear . . ."
