CHAPTER XXVIII.
A PRESENCE YET NOT A PRESENCE.
The twilight had fallen while he wrote, and the wind had risen.

It was now blowing a gale.

When he could no longer see, he rose to light his lamp, and looked out of the window.

All was dusk around him.

Above and below was nothing to be distinguished from the mass; nothing and something seemed in it to share an equal uncertainty.