CHAPTER 18
When the door closed on her, Terry remained standing in the middle of the
room watching the flame in the oil lamp she had lighted flare and rise at
the corner, and then steady down to an even line of yellow; but he was
not seeing it; he was listening to that peculiar silence in the house. It
seemed to have spread over the entire village, and he heard no more of
those casual noises which he had noticed on his coming.
He went to the window and raised it to let whatever wind was abroad enter
the musty warmth of the room. He raised the sash with stealthy caution,
wondering at his own stealthiness. And he was oddly glad when the window
rose without a squeak. He leaned out and looked up and down the street.
It was unchanged. Across the way a door flung open, a child darted
