She had switched on the light
as she came in. Her hair fell straggling over her dressing gown. Her
face was deathly pale, its expression so distraught it was almost
haggard.
The eyes were very wide. She looked almost like another woman.
She was whispering at a great pace: "Bill, Bill, wake up, quick!"
"I am awake. What is it?" I whispered too. I was startled.
"Listen!" was all she said. Her eyes stared into vacancy.
There was not a sound in the great house. The wind had dropped, and all
was still. Only the tapping seemed to continue endlessly in my brain.
The clock on the mantelpiece pointed to half-past two.
"I heard nothing, Frances. What is it?" I rubbed my eyes; I had been
very deeply asleep.
"Listen!" she repeated very softly, holding up one finger and turning
her eyes towards the door she had left ajar. Her usual calmness had
deserted her. She was in the grip of some distressing terror.
For a full minute we held our breath and listened. Then her eyes rolled
round again and met my own, and her skin went even whiter than before.
"It woke me," she said beneath her breath, and moving a step nearer to
my bed. "It was the Noise." Even her whisper trembled.
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