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Thackeray, William Makepeace, 1811-1863

"The Best British Short Stories of 1922"

We selected two that lay in an alcove at the end of the room
farthest from the door, and turned in. In a few minutes we were both
asleep.
Suddenly I awoke. A clock outside struck one. There was no sound in the
room but the now subdued snoring of Twinetoes. I was at once wide
awake, but I lay quite still, breathing as naturally as possible,
keeping my eyes more than half closed, for I felt some sinister
presence in the room. A new pollution affected the atmosphere. Bending
over me was the old crone. Downstairs she had seemed aimless,
shapeless, almost helpless, an object of disgusting pitifulness. Now,
dark as it was, and unexpected as was the visit, I could at once see
that she was as active and alert as a monkey.
On going to bed I had put my boots under my pillow, and thrown my coat
over me, keeping the cuff of one sleeve in my hand. A practised claw
slipped under my head and deftly fingered the insides of my boots:
Blank. The coat pockets were next examined: Blank. Still I dog-slept.
The wrinkled lips were now working angrily, churning up two specks of
foam that shone white in the corners of the mouth.


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