” It was sitting in her suitcase in the same pocket as the expired bus tickets. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. ” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals. It was intolerable to think that he might overhear words and phrases. Even the teachers were getting restless, the seniors gnawing hard at the bit as graduation teased. It was not simply that all the rooms were rearranged and everybody dressed in unusual fashions, and all the routines of life abolished and put away: people’s tempers and emotions also seemed strangely disturbed and shifted about.
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