Even though the individual faces of her audience were not to be singled out, she had been conscious from the first moment of her appearance that something was wrong. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. “Please search everywhere,” she said. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. In a fit of despondency, superinduced by drunkenness, he made away with himself; and when the body was discovered, after a lapse of some months, such was the impression produced by the spectacle —such the alarm occasioned by the crazy state of the building, and, above all, by the terror inspired by strange and unearthly noises heard during the night, which were, of course, attributed to the spirit of the suicide, that the place speedily enjoyed the reputation of being haunted, and was, consequently, entirely abandoned. ‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 19-09-2024 22:04:20
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