"Ghosts!" she would cry.
"You show me one, that's all. I'll give you ghosts!"
Her digestion was excellent, her sleep undisturbed by conscience or
creditors. She was a happy woman.
Henry loved March Square. There was a window in an upstairs passage from
behind whose glass he could gaze at the passing world. The Passing
World!... the shrouded house behind him. One was as alive, as bustling,
as demonstrative to him as the other, but between the two there was, for
him, no communication. His attitude to the Square and the people in it
was that he knew more about them than anyone else did; his attitude to
the House, that he knew nothing at all compared with what "They" knew.
In the Square he could see through the lot of them, so superficial were
they all; in the House he could only wait, with fingers on lip, for the
next revelation that they might vouchsafe to him.
Doors were, for the most part, locked, yet there were many days when
fires were lit because the house was an old one, and damp Lady Cathcart
had a horror of.
Always for young Henry the house wore its buried and abandoned air.
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