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world rang hollow underfoot and the stars that swarmed by night seemed as near as the people with whom she talked by day. She found herself alone and in a void. She ate, slept, but she did not know what she ate nor why she slept. Her work progressed with an almost automatic nicety and she felt that her mind had been clarified and sharpened, but that everything else was dulled. A dam seemed to have been thrown across the easy stream of her existence and back of it the waters were rising and rising...She moved, but she moved under a shadow conscious always that something soon would happen. What? Nothing!

Little by little the stack of letters of introduction grew less and the material forwarded to the 'Journal' began to assume book proportions. Mr. Fox was enthusiastic, but why did she not look up Miss Champion? Her work was so immensely popular in the States and she seemed to be the last left who wrote in the Radcliffe tradition of ghosts, dark castles, rattling chains and werewolveswere-wolves [sic]. 'Of course she is in no sense an artist—just a literary workman, but you might have fun.'

This rather obscure 'workman' and no artist proved to be the hardest to reach of all the great