"But her terror, poor thing, is not--cannot be--transferable to us!" I
exclaimed more vehemently. "It certainly is not convertible into
feelings, sights and--even sounds!"
She interrupted me quickly, almost impatiently, speaking with that
conviction by which she conquered me so easily that night.
"It is her terror that revived 'the Others.' It has brought her into
touch with them. They are loose and driving after her. Her efforts at
resistance have given them also hope--that escape, after all, is
possible. Day and night they strive.
"Escape! Others!" The anger fast rising in me dropped of its own accord
at the moment of birth. It shrank into a shuddering beyond my control.
In that moment, I think, I would have believed in the possibility of
anything and everything she might tell me. To argue or contradict seemed
equally futile.
"His strong belief, as also the beliefs of others who have preceded
him," she replied, so sure of herself that I actually turned to look
over my shoulder, "have left their shadow like a thick deposit over the
house and grounds. To them, poor souls imprisoned by thought, it was
hopeless as granite walls--until her resistance, her effort to dissipate
it--let in light.
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