At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. ” She raked into the fire with the poker. Sheppard, which she gratefully declined. ” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. If, when he returned, he blew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned on for any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtain to learn if his agony was still upon him. “I cannot part with you.
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