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air of the corridor on her cheek, she slid down off her pillow and ducked her head under the sheet. Then, to her horror, she felt the blanket slowly slipping away and, peering out, was frozen stiff to see a tall figure, dressed in white, standing at the foot of her bed, its long, skinny fingers clutching at the covering. Without even a groan she passed promptly into a fit of unconsciousness, known as a dead faint, where, with only a sheet over her, she lay until the cold woke her. She left by the early coach and believes to this day that she would have been strangled had she offered the slightest protest. Nor did her hostess’s letter, covering a full explanation, satisfy her. “It was not a ghost you saw, my dear, but the bishop, who wanted an extra blanket, and who jumped out of bed in search of one, and into your room, thinking it empty. It’s a mercy you didn’t scream, for then the situation could never have been explained—better say nothing about it, or, if you do—stick to its being a ghost.”

While these and other yarns were sent spinning around the table, Louis had cut in, of course, with all sorts of asides—some whispers behind his hand to his next neighbor—some squibs of criticism exploded without rhyme or