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Updated: June 19, 2025
I noticed that the wound had opened, and his white hair was stained with blood. "It is the death-coach," cried my grandmother. "What matter, if it comes for both of us?" he said. "It is not the death-coach," I cried. "It is a friend, some one come to our help. Look at Dido! She would be frightened if it were the death-coach. See how she listens!"
The wind soughed and died away, and in the pause we heard them plainly, wheels on the gravel outside that stopped at the door. "It is the death-coach," my grandmother said. I rather saw than heard her say it, for her pale lips seemed incapable of speech. "No, no," I cried. "It is nothing of the sort. It is the messenger I am expecting. I have been listening for him all the evening. Be quiet!
The tremendous knocking still went on above the noise of the wind. "It is absurd," I cried, trying to make my grandmother hear; "did any one ever know the death-coach to come knocking at the door?" But she was too terrified to hear me. So I let her be, and, snatching one of the candles from the table, I went out into the hall.
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