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 give you some kind of an opinion.’ He gazed at me meditatively. ‘Perhaps it would,’ he said. ‘I told Mary only today that I thought you had some vestiges of sense in your head.’ (I bowed my acknowledgements.) ‘The thing is, I’ve an odd kind of shyness about talking of it. Nothing of the sort has happened to me before. Well, about eleven o’clock last night, or after, I took my candle and set out for my room. I had a book in my other hand—I always read something for a few minutes before I drop off to sleep. A dangerous habit: I don’t recommend it: but I know how to manage my light and my bed curtains. Now then, first, as I stepped out of my study into the great half that’s next to it, and shut the door, my candle went out. I supposed I had clapped the door behind me too quick, and made a draught, and I was annoyed, for I’d no tinder-box nearer than my bedroom. But I knew my way well enough, and went on. The next thing was that my book was struck out of my hand in the dark: if I said twitched out of my hand it would better express the sensation. It fell on the floor. I picked it up, and went on, more annoyed than before, and a little startled. But as you know, that hall has many windows