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Thackeray, William Makepeace, 1811-1863

"The Best British Short Stories of 1922"

Even from
where I sat I could see his colour change; he went greenish. He
crouched without stirring, simply fixed. And I, scarcely daring to
breathe, sat with creeping skin, simply watching him. His hands
relaxed, and he gave a kind of sigh.
"Was that one?" I whispered, with a timid show of jauntiness. He looked
round, opened his mouth, and nodded. "What?" I said. He jerked his
thumb with meaningful eyes, and I knew that he meant that his aunt had
been there listening at our door cranny.
"Look here, Seaton," I said once more, wriggling to my feet. "You may
think I'm a jolly noodle; just as you please. But your aunt has been
civil to me and all that, and I don't believe a word you say about her,
that's all, and never did. Every fellow's a bit off his pluck at night,
and you may think it a fine sport to try your rubbish on me. I heard
your aunt come upstairs before I fell asleep. And I'll bet you a level
tanner she's in bed now. What's more, you can keep your blessed ghosts
to yourself. It's a guilty conscience, I should think."
Seaton looked at me curiously, without answering for a moment.


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