I’m sure he knows what I’m thinking.
If I did not see with my own eyes that the book I read from was old, practically falling to dust in my fingers, its pages fragile, its writing faint and old-fashioned, I would have thought that Hurst had commissioned the work himself, or perhaps one of his many lovers penned this account.
“Sometimes the girls think they see the ghost of Susanna Beecham haunting the halls of the upstairs. What do you think?”
“They’ve heard the story before?” I ask, staring around at the others.
“They’ve read it aloud just as you have done.”
I’m puzzled. “I’m not sure I understand your point. You fancy yourself a latter day Aaron, his incarnation?”
“Hardly. But I fashion myself a man with similar tastes and like temperament. Read again where I marked the narrative,”
