FLIGHT
a shape of evil, a specter of horror obscene and malign, crouching, ready to spring, there, in the shadow of night. …
And her breath was smothered in her throat and her heart smote so madly against the frail walls of its cage that they seemed like to burst, while she stood transfixed, frozen in inaction, limbs stiffening, roots of her hair stirring, fingers gripping the banister rail until they pained her; and with eyes that stared wide into the black heart of nothingness, until the night seemed pricked with evanescent periods of dim fire, peopled with monstrous and terrible shadows closing about her. …
Yet—it was absurd! She must not yield to such puerile superstitions.
There was nothing there. …
There was something there … something that like an incarnation of hatred was stalking her. …
If only she dared scream! If only she dared turn and fly, back to the comfort of light and human company! …
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