My brain seems curiously blank.
Toward morning, I begin to toss, uneasily. I cannot rest, and, after
awhile, I get out of bed, and pace the floor. The wintry dawn is
beginning to creep through the windows, and shows the bare discomfort of
the old room. Strange, that, through all these years, it has never
occurred to me how dismal the place really is. And so a time passes.
From somewhere down stairs, a sound comes up to me. I go to the bedroom
door, and listen. It is Mary, bustling about the great, old kitchen,
getting the breakfast ready. I feel little interest. I am not hungry. My
thoughts, however; continue to dwell upon her. How little the weird
happenings in this house seem to trouble her. Except in the incident of
the Pit creatures, she has seemed unconscious of anything unusual
occurring. She is old, like myself; yet how little we have to do with
one another. Is it because we have nothing in common; or only that,
being old, we care less for society, than quietness? These and other
matters pass through my mind, as I meditate; and help to distract my
attention, for a while, from the oppressive thoughts of the night.
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