"You can't account for that wet sheet hitting my face," said Mrs.
Townsend, doubtfully.
"You imagined it."
"I FELT it."
That afternoon things went on as usual in the household until
nearly four o'clock. Adrianna went downtown to do some shopping.
Mrs. Townsend sat sewing beside the bay window in her room, which
was a front one in the third story. George had not got home. Mr.
Townsend was writing a letter in the library. Cordelia was busy in
the basement; the twilight, which was coming earlier and earlier
every night, was beginning to gather, when suddenly there was a
loud crash which shook the house from its foundations. Even the
dishes on the sideboard rattled, and the glasses rang like bells.
The pictures on the walls of Mrs. Townsend's room swung out from
the walls. But that was not all: every looking-glass in the house
cracked simultaneously--as nearly as they could judge--from top to
bottom, then shivered into fragments over the floors. Mrs.
Townsend was too frightened to scream. She sat huddled in her
chair, gasping for breath, her eyes, rolling from side to side in
incredulous terror, turned toward the street.
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