she would open the door quickly, slide in, and close it as quickly.
For she sensed, rather, she knew, that the Thing intended to follow her. It radiated energy and vigor and determination. A certain kindly determination that, just for a fleeting moment, touched in her the sense of awe.
But the moment she opened the door, the moment her lithe body slid from the darkness of the entrance hall into the creamy, silky, perfumed darkness of her boudoir, she knew that the Thing flitted in by her side. She felt it blow over her neck, her face, her breast, like a gust of wind.
It even touched her. It touched her non-physically. That is the only way to put it.
Nor was she afraid then. On the contrary, she felt rather sorry for the Thing. And that touched in her once more the sense of awe—naturally, since to feel sorry was to her a new sensation, since never before in all her life had she felt sorry for anything or anybody.
The result was that she began to hate the Thing— with cold, calculating hatred, hatred without fear.
She locked the windows and doors. Quite instinctively her hand brushed the tiny nacre button
