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28 her chair by a creeping terror, perhaps worse for having no ostensible cause. The arm-chair where she sat seemed a protection; what did, what could she dread in moving from it? She knew not, but she did dread. Her sight seemed to fail her as she looked round the vast dim room: the old painted ceiling appeared a mass of moving and hideous faces—the huge faded red curtains had, as it were, some unnatural motion, as if some appalling shape were behind—and the coffin—the unclosed coffin—left unclosed at her earnest prayer—her limbs refused to bear her towards it, and her three hours' vigil passed in mute terror rather than affliction. Suddenly a shadow fell before her—and not if life had depended on its suppression, could Emily have checked the scream that rose to her lips: it was only the nurse, who, her own sleep over, was to share the few hours that yet remained. The relief of a human face—the sound of a human voice—Emily felt absolutely grateful for the old woman's company. It was oppressively hot, and the nurse, drawing back the heavy curtains, opened one of the windows. Though the shutters still remained closed, a gleam of daylight came warm and crimson through each chink and crevice—"and it has