But now I said to myself that I wished I had never spoken so lightly.

Perhaps the ghost had brought me bad luck.

I felt as if the murder must have happened on just such a still, brooding, damp night as this.

Maybe it was the anniversary, if I only knew.
I went indoors, Marianne following.

Henri, very thin, very precise, withered like a winter apple, had fallen into a doze in the hall, where he had sat, hoping to hear the stopping of my carriage.