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''Nina is seated at the foot of the table, her back to the window, writing a letter. Her whole personality seems changed, her face has a contented expression, there is an inner calm about her. And her personal appearance has changed in kind, her face and figure have filled out, she is prettier in a conventional way and less striking and unusual; nothing remains of the strange fascination of her face except her unchangeably mysterious eyes''.

[Reading what she has just written over to herself]

It’s a queer house, Ned. There is something wrong with its psyche, I’m sure. Therefore you’d simply adore it. It’s a hideous old place, a faded gingerbread with orange fixin’s and numerous lightning rods. Around it are acres and acres of apple trees in full bloom, all white and pinkish and beautiful, like brides just tripping out of church with the bridegroom, Spring, by the arm.

Which reminds me, Ned, that it’s over six months since Sam and I were married and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of you since the ceremony. Do you think that is any nice way to act? You might at least drop me a line. But I’m only joking. I know how busy you must be now that you’ve got the chance you’ve always wanted to do research work. Did you get our joint letter of congratulation written after we read of your appointment?

But to get back to this house. I feel it has lost its soul and grown resigned to doing without it. It isn’t haunted by anything at all—and ghosts of some sort are the only normal life a house has—like our minds, you know. So although last evening when we got here at first I said “obviously haunted” to myself, now that I’ve spent one night in it I know that whatever spooks there may once