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Updated: May 20, 2025
Even Grega and Martie, the two little plain-faced girls, were not to be seen; the drab, rose-patterned carpet muffled my footsteps, which, for some inexplicable reason, I made as light as possible. The room, faded, and scrubbed to the point of painfulness, gave only two signs of disorder, a crumpled book of verse open on the table and a Bible lying face down on the worn, orange-colored sofa.
But he was nearer to the end than I had thought. Grega was there in that same barren room of the mill-house, doing things in a stolid, undeft sort of way. The bed had been pulled near the stove and the room was stuffier, more untidy than in the days when Lisbeth had been there.
"Yes, he needed me." "There was Grega," I insisted. "She was the man of the family." "She's married, you know." I recalled having heard of an unsatisfactory marriage. So she had escaped! "And Martie?" "Working at a store in town." A dull rage charred at the inner fibres of my being.
A wild-looking creature sat in a corner he was a saint, a madman, of the sect of the Darkaoa rocking himself to and fro, and crying "Allah! All-lah! All-l-lah! All-l-l-lah!" Near to this person a haggard old man of the Grega sect was shaking and dancing at his prayers.
Miss Etta and Grega and Mr. Lin Darton were gathered into a corner of the room and an occasional whispering escaped them. The oppression was terrific. I began to want Lisbeth, to long for her to come, as she would come, like a cool blade cutting through density. And yet I was not sure. I found myself staring through the black, shiny surface of the window, seeking relief in the obscuring dark.
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