He
blinked at me calmly. "She brings them," he said, with lifted eyebrows.
"Who? Your aunt?"
He nodded.
"How?"
"I told you," he answered pettishly. "She's in league. You don't know.
She as good as killed my mother; I know that. But it's not only her by
a long chalk. She just sucks you dry. I know. And that's what she'll do
for me; because I'm like her--like my mother, I mean. She simply hates
to see me alive. I wouldn't be like that old she-wolf for a million
pounds. And so"--he broke off, with a comprehensive wave of his
candlestick--"they're always here. Ah, my boy, wait till she's dead!
She'll hear something then, I can tell you. It's all very well now, but
wait till then! I wouldn't be in her shoes when she has to clear
out--for something. Don't you go and believe I care for ghosts, or
whatever you like to call them. We're all in the same box. We're all
under her thumb."
He was looking almost nonchalantly at the ceiling at the moment, when I
saw his face change, saw his eyes suddenly drop like shot birds and fix
themselves on the cranny of the door he had just left ajar.
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